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HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   &  CO. 
Boston  and  New  York. 


HE  WALKED   OFF  .   .  .  AND   LEANED  AGAINST  A  TREE  (Page  68) 


Tales  of  the  Home  Folks 


in 


Peace  and  War 


BY 


JOEL   CHANDLER   HARRIS 

AUTHOR   OF   UNCLE   REMUS    AND   HIS    FRIENDS, 

NIGHTS  WITH    UNCLE   REMUS,   AND   THE 

THIMBLEFINGER    STORIES. 


BOSTON   AND   NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON,   MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 

(Cbe  Ifttocitfibe  prcsp,  Cambnbge 

1898 


4 


/ 


COPYEIQHT   1898   BY  JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS   AND 

HOUGHTON,    MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

ALL  RIOHTS  RESERVED 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER  LILLIAN 

Who  will  know  why  I  have  included  in  Tales 

of  the  Home  Folks  the  little  skit  about 

our  friends  in  St.  Valerien 


• 


c3 


CONTENTS 

Page 

How  Whalebone  caused  a  Wedding    ...  1 

The  Colonel's  "Nigger  Dog"    ....  34 

A  Run  of  Luck         .......  71 

The  Late  Mr.  Watkins  of  Georgia          .        .  97 

A  Belle  of  St.  Valerien        .....  114 

The  Comedy  of  War 148 

A  Bold  Deserter 184 

A  Baby  in  the  Siege 215 

The  Baby's  Fortune 253 

An  Ambuscade 293 

The  Cause  of  the  Difficulty       ....  345 

The  Baby's  Christmas 377 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

Page 

He  walked  off  .  .  .  and  leaned  against  a  tree 

(Page  68) Frontispiece. 

"  Go  !  "  the  Mariste  repeated  ....  144 
Little  Billy  trotted  by  his  side  .  .  .  210 
"God  bless  you,  me  b'y  ! "  .        .  .        .        336 


TALES   OF   THE   HOME  FOLK  IN 
PEACE  AND   WAR 


HOW  WHALEBONE   CAUSED  A 
WEDDING 

Matt  Kilpatrick  of  Putnam  used  to 
laugh  and  say  that  his  famous  foxhound 
Whalebone  was  responsible  for  a  very  bril- 
liant wedding  in  Jasper.  When  Harvey 
Dennis  and  Tom  Collingsworth  were  among 
his  listeners  (which  was  pretty  much  all  the 
time,  for  the  three  were  inseparable),  they 
had  a  way  of  shaking  their  heads  dubiously 
over  this  statement.  Mr.  Dennis  thought 
that  his  dog  Rowan  (pronounced  Ro-ann) 
ought  to  have  some  of  the  credit,  while  Mr. 
Collingsworth  was  equally  sure  that  Music 
had  as  much  to  do  with  the  happy  event  as 
any  of  the  rest.  The  Collingsworth  argu- 
ment —  and  it  was  a  sound  one  —  was  that 
where  a  lady  dog  is  skipping  along  and  per- 
forming to  the  queen's  taste  all  the  work  that 


2      HOW   WHALEBONE  CAUSED  A    WEDDING 

is  cut  out  for  her,  she  ought  to  come  ahead 
of  the  gentlemen  dogs  in  any  historical  state- 
ment or  reminiscence. 

When  I  first  heard  the  story,  considera- 
tions of  local  pride  led  me  to  feel  that  Rowan 
had  been  unjustly  robbed  of  the  credit  that 
belonged  to  him ;  but  time  cools  the  ardor 
of  youth,  and  mellows  and  sweetens  the 
sources  of  partisanship.  I  can  say  now  that 
Rowan  had  small  advantage  over  his  two 
famous  rivals,  when  the  scent  was  as  high  as 
the  saddle-skirts  and  the  pace  the  kind  that 
kills. 

Mr.  Kilpatrick  used  to  tell  the  story  as  a 
joke,  and  frequently  he  repeated  it  merely  to 
tease  those  who  were  interested  in  the  results 
of  Whalebone's  exploit,  or  to  worry  his  fox- 
hunting rivals,  who  were  his  dearest  friends. 
But  the  story  was  true.  In  repeating  it  I 
shall  have  to  include  details  that  Mr.  Kilpat- 
rick found  it  unnecessary  to  burden  himself 
with,  for  they  were  as  familiar  to  his  neigh- 
borhood audience  as  any  of  their  own  per- 
sonal affairs. 

The  way  of  it  was  this :  One  day  in  the 
beginning  of  December,  1860,  Colonel  El- 
more Rivers,  of  Jasper  County,  put  a  negro 


HOW  WHALEBONE  CAUSED  A    WEDDING     3 

boy  on  a  mule  and  sent  him  around  with  an 
invitation  to  certain  of  his  friends,  request- 
ing them  to  do  him  the  honor  of  eating  their 
Christmas  dinner  with  him.  This  invitation 
was  prepared  with  great  care  by  Mrs.  Rivers, 
who  was  a  schoolma'am  from  Connecticut 
when  the  colonel  married  her.  It  was  beauti- 
fully written  on  the  inside  of  a  sheet  of  fools- 
cap, and  this  sheet  was  tacked  to  a  piece  of 
card-board,  by  means  of  a  deftly  made  true- 
lover's-knot  of  blue  ribbon.  The  card-board 
was  placed  in  a  satchel,  and  the  satchel  was 
arranged  to  swing  over  the  shoulders  of  the 
negro,  so  that  there  was  no  danger  of  losing 
it.  There  was  only  one  invitation,  and  it 
was  to  be  carried  from  one  of  the  colonel's 
friends  to  the  other  until  all  had  been  noti- 
fied of  his  hospitable  desires. 

The  colonel  added  an  oral  postscript  as 
he  gave  the  negro  a  stiff  dram.  "  Ding  'em," 
he  exclaimed,  "  tell  'em  to  bring  their  dogs. 
Mind  now  !  tell  'em  to  bring-  their  do«s." 

Mrs.  Rivers  enjoyed  Christmas  as  heartily 
as  anybody,  but  in  beginning  preparations 
for  the  festival  she  always  had  her  misgiv- 
ings. Her  father,  Dr.  Joshua  Penniman,  had 
been  a  Puritan   among   Puritans,  and  some- 


4      HOW   WHALEBONE  CAUSED  A    WEDDING 

how  she  had  got  the  idea  from  him  that  there 
was  a  good  deal  of  popery  concealed  in  the 
Christmas  ceremonials.  But  when  once  the 
necessity  for  preparation  was  upon  her  she 
cast  her  scruples  aside,  and  her  Christmas 
dinners  were  famous  in  that  whole  region. 
By  catering  to  the  colonel's  social  instincts 
in  this  and  other  particulars,  she  managed,  at 
a  later  period  of  his  life,  to  lead  him  trium- 
phantly into  the  fold  of  the  Baptist  Church. 
It  was  a  great  victory  for  Miss  Lou,  as  every- 
body called  her,  and  she  lived  long  to  enjoy 
the  distinction  it  conferred  upon  her. 

The  day  after  the  invitation  had  been  sent 
around,  a  couple  of  weanling  pigs  were 
caught  and  penned,  and,  until  the  day  be- 
fore Christmas,  they  were  fed  and  fattened 
on  nubbins  and  roasted  white-oak  acorns. 
Three  young  gobblers  were  also  caught  and 
put  upon  such  diet  as,  according  to  the  colo- 
nel's theory,  would  add  to  their  toothsome- 
ness,  and  give  them  a  more  delicate  flavor. 
These  are  merely  hints  of  the  extensive  pre- 
parations for  the  Christmas  festival  on  the 
Rivers  plantation. 

What  the  colonel  always  wanted  was  a 
merry  Christmas,  and  there  could  be  no  mer- 


HOW   WHALEBONE  CAUSED  A   WEDDING     5 

riment  where  good  -  humor  and  good  -  cheer 
were  lacking.  He  had  said  to  his  wife  years 
before,  when  she  was  somewhat  doubtful 
about  introducing  her  New  England  holiday, 
"  Go  ahead,  honey  !  Cut  just  as  big  a  dash 
as  you  please  with  your  Thanksgiving.  I  '11 
enjoy  it  as  much  as  you  will,  maybe  more. 
The  Lord  knows  we  've  got  a  heap  to  be 
thankful  for.  We  '11  cut  a  big  dash  and 
be  thankful,  and  then  when  Christmas  comes 
we  '11  cut  a  big  dash  and  be  happy." 

Thenceforward  they  had  both  Thanksgiv- 
ing and  Christmas  on  that  plantation,  and 
Miss  Lou  was  as  anxious  to  satisfy  the  colo- 
nel with  her  Christmas  arrangements  as  he 
had  been  to  please  her  with  his  zeal  for 
Thanksgiving.  Indeed,  one  Christmas-day, 
a  year  or  two  after  their  marriage,  Miss  Lou 
went  so  far  as  to  present  her  husband  with  a 
daughter,  and  ever  after  that  Christmas  had 
a  new  significance  in  that  household :  Miss 
Lou  satisfied  her  Puritan  scruples  by  pre- 
tending to  herself  that  she  was  engaged  in 
celebrating  her  daughter's  birthday,  and  the 
colonel  was  glad  that  two  of  the  most  impor- 
tant days  in  the  calendar  were  merged  into 
one. 


6      HOW   WHALEBONE   CAUSED  A    WEDDING 

When  the  child  was  born,  a  poor  lonely 
old  woman,  named  Betsey  Cole,  who  lived  in 
the  woods  between  the  Rivers  plantation  and 
town,  sent  the  colonel  word  that  the  little 
lass  would  grow  up  to  be  both  good  and 
beautiful.  Nothing  would  do  after  that  but 
the  colonel  must  send  the  fortune-teller  a 
wagon-load  of  provisions,  and  he  kept  it  up 
every  Christmas  as  long  as  Betsey  Cole  lived. 

The  fortune-teller  certainly  made  no  mis- 
take in  her  prediction.  The  child  grew  to  be 
the  most  beautiful  young  woman  in  all  that 
region.  The  colonel  named  her  Mary  after 
his  mother,  and  the  name  seemed  to  fit  her, 
for  her  character  was  as  lovely  as  her  face. 
Even  the  women  and  little  children  loved  her, 
and  when  this  kind  of  manifestation  is  made 
over  a  girl,  it  is  needless  to  inquire  about  her 
character  or  disposition. 

It  might  be  supposed  that  Mary  had  a 
lover,  but  if  so,  no  one  knew  it  but  her  own 
sweet  self.  Her  father,  the  colonel,  declared 
she  was  as  cool  as  a  cucumber  when  the  boys 
were  around,  and  the  young  men  who  raved 
over  her  thought  she  was  even  cooler  than  a 
cucumber.  And  yet  she  had  her  father's 
ardent    temperament    and    good-nature,    and 


HOW   WHALEBONE  CAUSED  A    WEDDING      1 

her  mother's  prudence  and  sound  discretion. 
It  was  a  happy  combination  in  all  respects, 
and  it  had  its  climax  in  a  piquant  individu- 
ality that  impressed  old  and  young  with  its 
charm. 

There  were  two  young  men,  among  the 
many  that  were  smitten,  who  made  it  a  point 
to  pay  particular  attention  to  the  young  lady. 
One  was  Jack  Preston,  and  the  other  was 
Andy  Colston.  Both  were  handsome  and 
ambitious,  and  both  had  good  prospects. 
Colston  already  had  the  advantage  of  a  for- 
tune, but  Preston  was  as  hopeful  and  as 
cheerful  as  if  he  possessed  a  dozen  planta- 
tions and  a  thousand  negroes.  Mentally  they 
were  about  evenly  matched,  but  Preston  had 
been  compelled  by  circumstances  to  cultivate 
an  energy  in  the  matter  of  steady  application 
that  Colston  never  knew  the  necessity  of. 

These  young  men  were  intimate  friends, 
and  they  did  not  attempt  to  conceal  from 
each  other  their  attitude  toward  Mary  Rivers. 
It  was  perhaps  well  that  this  was  so.  Both 
were  high-strung  and  high-tempered,  and  if 
they  had  been  anything  but  intimate  with 
each  other,  the  slightest  cause  or  provocation 
would    have     precipitated    trouble    between 


8      HOW   WHALEBONE  CAUSED  A    WEDDING 

them.  And  this  would  have  heen  very  un- 
fortunate indeed  ;  for,  if  the  name  of  Mary 
Rivers  had  been  even  remotely  hinted  as  the 
cause  of  such  trouble,  the  colonel  would  have 
locked  himself  in  his  library,  read  a  chapter 
in  the  family  Bible,  called  for  his  saddle- 
horse  and  shot-gun,  and  gone  cantering  up 
the  big:  road  on  business  connected  with  the 
plantation. 

But  these  rival  lovers  were  bosom  friends. 
There  were  points  about  each  that  attracted 
the  other.  When  Preston  was  with  Miss 
Mary  he  lost  no  opportunity  of  praising  the 
good  qualities  of  Colston,  and  Colston  made 
no  concealment  of  the  fact  that  he  considered 
Preston  the  salt  of  the  earth,  as  we  say  in 
Georgia. 

All  this  was  very  pleasant  and  very  confus- 
ing. Mary  was  in  love  with  one  of  them, 
but  she  never  admitted  the  fact,  even  to  her- 
self, until  a  curious  episode  compelled  her  to 
acknowledge  it.  Even  her  mother  confessed 
that  she  had  been  unable  to  discover  Mary's 
preference  until  the  fact  fluttered  out  before 
everybody's  eyes,  like  a  startled  bird  from  its 
nest.  For  a  while  the  mother  would  think 
that  her  daughter  preferred  Preston.     Then 


HOW  WHALEBONE  CAUSED  A   WEDDING      9 

she  would  imagine  that  the  girl  was  in  love 
with  Colston.  And  sometimes  she  would  con- 
clude that  Mary's  heart  had  not  been  touched 
at  all.  Miss  Lou  herself  preferred  Colston, 
but  she  was  not  opposed  to  Preston.  Col- 
ston had  a  solid  fortune,  and  Preston  —  well, 
Connecticut  knows  very  well  how  many  long 
days  and  how  many  hard  licks  are  necessary 
to  lay  up  a  fortune.  Young  people  may  put 
up  True  Love  as  their  candidate  and  pout  at 
Hard  Cash  as  much  as  they  please,  but  if  they 
had  to  go  through  the  experience  that  Con- 
necticut and  the  neighboring  States  went 
through  sixty  odd  years  ago  (to  go  back  no 
farther),  they  would  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  Hard  Cash  has  peculiar  merits  of  its  own. 
Nevertheless,  Miss  Lou  was  too  wise  to  say 
anything  about  the  matter.  She  knew  that 
her  husband,  although  he  possessed  land  and 
negroes  and  money,  had  a  certain  fine  scorn 
for  the  privileges  and  distinctions  that  mere 
wealth  confers.  He  was  emphatically  a  man 
of  the  people,  and  he  would  have  tolerated  no 
effort  to  implant  false  notions  in  his  daugh- 
ter's mind.  Moreover,  Miss  Lou  had  great 
confidence  in  Mary's  sound  judgment.  It 
was   one   comfort,  the  mother  thought,  that 


10      HOW   WHALEBONE  CAUSED  A    WEDDING 

Mary  was  not  giddy.  She  was  as  gay  as  a 
lark,  and  full  of  the  spirit  of  innocent  fun, 
but  (thank  goodness)  not  giddy  nor  foolish. 

But,  after  all,  the  chief  worry  of  Miss  Lou 
on  the  approach  of  this  particular  Christmas 
was  not  about  Mary  and  her  beaux.  It  was 
about  the  preparations  that  the  colonel  was 
making  on  his  own  responsibility.  She  saw 
several  extra  bags  of  meal  coming  in  from 
Roach's  Mill,  and  her  heart  sank  within  her 
at  the  thought  of  numberless  fox -hounds 
swarming  under  the  house  and  in  the  yard, 
and  roaming  around  over  the  plantation.  At 
the  first  convenient  opportunity  she  broached 
the  subject. 

"  Mr.  Rivers  "  (she  never  called  him  colo- 
nel), "  I  do  hope  you  have  n't  asked  your 
friends  to  brino-  their  hound-dog's  with  them. 
Why,  they  '11  take  the  whole  place.  You  've 
got  twelve  of  your  own.  What  on  earth  do 
you  want  with  any  more  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  honey,"  said  the  colonel,  with 
a  sigh.  "  Harvey  Dennis  and  Matt  Kilpat- 
rick  and  Tom  Collingsworth  will  fetch  their 
dogs,  and  I  reckon  maybe  Jack  Casswell  and 
Bill  Hearn  will  fetch  theirs." 

Mrs.  Rivers  dropped  her  hands  in  her  lap 


HOW  WHALEBONE  CAUSED  A    WEDDING     11 

in  helpless  dismay.  "  Mercies  upon  us !  I 
thought  you  surely  had  dogs  enough  of  your 
own. 

"  Why,  honey,"  the  colonel  expostulated, 
"  you  've  let  the  niggers  chunk  my  dogs  till 
they  are  no  manner  account." 

"  Well,  I  do  hate  hound-dogs  !  "  exclaimed 
Miss  Lou ;  "  sneaking  around,  sticking  their 
noses  in  the  pots  and  pans,  and  squalling  like 
they  're  killed  if  you  lift  your  hand.  Why, 
the  foxes  come  right  up  in  the  yard  and  take 
off  the  geese  and  ducks,  where  your  dogs 
could  see  them  if  they  were  n't  too  lazy  to 
open  their  eyes." 

"  Those  are  just  the  foxes  we  're  going  to 
catch,  honey,"  remarked  the  colonel  sooth- 
ingly. 

"  Well,  I  'd  rather  feed  the  foxes  a  whole 
year  than  to  have  forty  or  fifty  hound-dogs 
quartered  on  this  place  three  or  four  days." 

The  colonel  made  no  reply,  and  after  a  while 
his  wife  remarked,  pleasantly,  if  not  cheer- 
fully, "  Well,  I  guess  I  '11  have  bigger  trou- 
bles than  that  before  I  die.  If  I  don't,  it  will 
be  a  mercy." 

"  If  you  don't,  honey,  you  '11  live  and  die 
a  happy  woman,"  responded  the  colonel. 


12      HOW   WHALEBONE  CAUSED  A    WEDDING 

Miss  Lou  wiped  her  face  on  her  apron  and 
sat  absorbed  in  thought.  Presently,  Mary 
came  dancing  in.  Her  face  was  shining  with 
health  and  high  spirits. 

"  Just  think,  folks ! "  she  exclaimed. 
"  Four  more  days  and  I  '11  be  eighteen  !  A 
woman  grown,  but  with  the  sweet  disposition 
of  a  child  !  " 

The  colonel  laughed  and  his  wife  flushed 
a  little.  "  Where  did  you  hear  that  ?  "  she 
asked  her  daughter. 

"  Why,  I  heard  you  say  those  words  to 
father  no  longer  than  last  night.  Look,  fa- 
ther !  mother  is  actually  blushing  !  " 

u  I  believe  I  did  say  something  like  that," 
said  Miss  Lou.  "  I  intended  to  tell  your  fa- 
ther afterward  that  very  few  children  have 
sweet  dispositions.  But  my  mind  has  been 
worried  all  day  with  the  thought  of  the 
hound-dogs  we  've  got  to  feed." 

"  Oh,  father  !  "  exclaimed  Mary,  "  are  we 
to  have  a  fox-hunt  ?  And  may  I  go  ?  "  The 
colonel  nodded  a  prompt  assent,  but  Miss 
Lou  protested.  "  Now,  Mr.  Rivers,  I  think 
that  is  going  too  far.  I  certainly  do.  I  have 
always  been  opposed  to  it.  There  is  no 
earthly  reason  why  Mary  at  her  age  should 


HOW   WHALEBONE  CAUSED  A   WEDDING     13 

get  on  a  horse  and  go  galloping  about  the 
country  with  a  crowd  of  yelling  men  and 
howling  dogs.  It  may  be  well  enough  for 
the  men,  —  though  I  think  they  could  be  bet- 
ter employed,  —  but  I  think  the  line  ought  to 
be  drawn  at  the  women." 

"Why,  mother,  how  many  times  have  I 
been  fox-hunting  with  father  ?  " 

"Just  as  many  times  as  you  have  made 
me  miserable,"  replied  Miss  Lou ;  "  just  that 
many  times  and  no  more." 

"  Now,  momsy  !  don't  scold  your  onliest 
and  oldest  daughter,"  pleaded  Mary. 

"  Don't  wheedle  around  me!"  cried  Miss 
Lou,  pretending  to  be  very  angry.  "Mr. 
Rivers,  you  need  n't  be  winking  at  Mary  be- 
hind your  paper.  I  do  think  it  is  a  shame 
that  you  should  allow  your  daughter  to  go 
ripping  and  tearing  about  the  country  hunt- 
ing foxes.  I  think  it  is  a  burning  shame.  I 
positively  do." 

"  Well,  honey  "  — 

"I  don't  care  what  anybody  says,"  Miss 
Lou  broke  in.  "Here  is  Mary  old  enough 
to  get  married,  and  now  she  must  go  scamper- 
ing- about  with  a  lot  of  men  on  horseback- 
It  is  ridiculous  !  " 


14     HOW   WHALEBONE  CAUSED  A   WEDDING 

"  You  hear  that,  father  ?  Momsy  says 
I  'm  old  enough  to  get  married.  I  '11  marry 
the  man  that  brings  me  the  fox's  brush  the 
day  after  Christmas.  And  momsy  shall  bake 
the  cake,  and  she  '11  burn  it  just  as  the  cake 
is  burning;  now." 

Miss  Lou  lifted  her  nose  in  the  air.  "  I 
declare,  if  old  Dilsey  has  gone  to  sleep  and 
left  that  fruit-cake  to  burn,  I  '11  send  her  to 
the  overseer  !  " 

Whereupon  she  skipped  from  the  room, 
and  soon  after  the  colonel  and  Mary  heard 
her  laughing  at  something  the  fat  old  cook 
had  said.  Miss  Lou's  temper  was  all  on  the 
surface. 

The  colonel  looked  at  his  daughter  over 
his  spectacles  and  smiled.  "  I  reckon  you 
know,  precious,  that  we  '11  have  to  catch  the 
fox  before  your  beau  can  give  you  the  brush. 
But  we  '11  have  some  good  dogs  here.  So 
you  'd  better  tell  your  sweetheart  to  stir  his 
stumps.  Maybe  the  wrong  chap  will  get  the 
brush." 

"  Why,  you  won't  let  me  have  one  little 
joke,  father,"  cried  Mary.  "  Of  course  I 
won't  marry  the  man  that  gives  me  the 
brush  "  —  she  paused,  went  to  the  long  mir- 


HOW   WHALEBONE  CAUSED  A    WEDDING      15 

ror  that  slanted  forward  from  the  wall,  and 
made  a  pretty  mouth  at  herself  — "  unless 
he  's  the  right  person."  Then  she  ran  away, 
laughing. 

Preparations  for  the  Christmas  festival 
went  forward  rapidly,  and  when  the  day  came 
a  goodly  company  had  assembled  to  do  honor 
to  the  hearty  hospitality  of  Colonel  Rivers. 
As  Miss  Lou  had  foreseen,  the  yard  fairly 
swarmed  with  dogs.  Harvey  Dennis  brought 
seven,  Matt  Kilpatrick  ten,  Tom  Collings- 
worth twelve,  Jack  Casswell  eight,  and  Bill 
Hearn  fourteen  —  about  fifty  hounds  in  all. 
Colston  and  Preston  had  arrived  the  night 
before.  Colston  had  dogs,  but  he  left  them 
at  home.  He  knew  the  prejudices  of  Mary's 
mother.  Preston  was  not  a  planter  and  had 
no  dogs,  but  he  was  very  fond  of  cross-coun- 
try riding,  and  never  lost  an  opportunity  to 
engage  in  the  sport. 

The  colonel  was  in  ecstasies.  The  wide 
fireplace  in  the  sitting-room  was  piled  high 
with  half-seasoned  hickory  wood,  and  those 
who  sat  around  it  had  to  form  a  very  wide 
half-circle  indeed,  for  the  flaring-  logs  and 
glowing  embers  sent  forth  a  warmth  that 
penetrated  to  all  parts  of  the  room,  big  as  it 
was. 


16      HOW   WHALEBONE  CAUSED  A    WEDDING 

And  it  was  a  goodly  company  that  sat 
around  the  blazing  fire,  —  men  of  affairs, 
planters  with  very  large  interests  depending 
on  their  energy  and  foresight,  lawyers  who 
had  won  more  than  a  local  fame,  and  yet  all 
as  gay  and  as  good-humored  as  a  parcel  of 
schoolboys.  The  conversation  was  seasoned 
with  apt  anecdotes  inimitably  told,  and  full  of 
the  peculiar  humor  that  has  not  its  counter- 
part anywhere  in  the  world  outside  of  middle 
Georgia. 

And  the  dinner  was  magnificent.  Miss 
Lou  was  really  proud  of  it,  as  she  had  a  right 
to  be.  There  are  very  few  things  that  a 
Georgia  plantation  will  not  produce  when  it 
is  coaxed,  and  the  colonel  had  a  knack  of 
coaxing  that  was  the  envy  of  his  neighbors. 
Miss  Lou  could  not  doubt  the  sincerity  of  the 
praise  bestowed  on  her  dinner.  All  the 
guests  were  high-livers,  and  they  declared 
solemnly  that  they  had  never  before  sat  down 
to  such  a  royal  feast. 

The  servants  moved  about  as  silently  as 
ghosts.  There  were  four  negro  girls  to  wait 
on  the  table,  and  they  attended  to  their  du- 
ties with  a  promptness  and  precision  that 
were  constant  tributes  to  the  pains  that  Miss 


HOW   WHALEBONE  CAUSED  A    WEDDING     17 

Lou  had  taken  to  train  them,  and  to  the  vigi- 
lance with  which  she  watched  their  move- 
ments. 

Over  the  dessert,  the  colonel  grew  commu- 
nicative. "  This  mince-pie,"  he  said,  "  was 
made  by  Mary.  I  don't  think  she  put  enough 
of  the  twang  into  it." 

"  It  is  magnificent !  "  exclaimed  Colston. 

"  Superb  !  "  Preston  declared. 

"  It  's  as  good  as  any,"  said  Tom  Collings- 
worth ;  "  but  this  pie  business  is  mighty  de- 
ceiving. Miss  Molly  is  eighteen,  and  if  she 
can  bake  a  pone  of  corn-bread  as  it  ought  to 
be  baked,  she  's  ready  to  get  married." 

"  That  is  her  strong  point !  "  cried  the 
colonel.     "  She  beats  anybody  at  that." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Collingsworth,  "  you 
just  go  and  get  her  wedding  goods." 

"  I  'm  beginning  to  think  so,  too,"  replied 
the  colonel.  "  No  longer  than  the  other  day 
she  declared  she  'd  marry  the  man  that  brings 
her  the  fox's  brush  to-morrow.  What  do  you 
think  of  that  ?  " 

"  Why,  father  !  "  exclaimed  Mary,  blushing 
violently. 

"  Then  it  's  just  as  good  as  settled,"  re- 
plied Collingsworth   gravely.     "  I  'm  just  as 


18      HOW   WHALEBONE  CAUSED  A    WEDDING 

certain  to  tail  that  fox  as  the  sun  shines.  I 
rubbed  my  rabbit-foot  on  Music  and  Rowdy 
before  I  started,  and  I  '11  whistle  'em  up  and 
shake  it  at  'em  to-night." 

"  But  remember,  Mr.  Collingsworth,  you 
are  already  married,"  Mary  suggested  archly. 

"  I  know  —  I  know  !  But  my  old  woman 
has  been  complaining  might'ly  of  late  —  com- 
plaining might'ly.  When  I  started  away,  she 
says,  '  Tom,  you  ought  n't  to  ride  your  big 
gray ;  he 's  lots  too  young  for  you.'  But 
something  told  me  that  I  'd  need  the  big 
gray,  and,  sure  enough,  here  's  right  where 
the  big  gray  comes  in." 

"  I  brought  my  sorrel  along,"  remarked 
Colston,  sententiously. 

"  Oh,  you  did  ?  "  inquired  Collingsworth, 
sarcastically.  "  Well,  I  '11  give  your  sorrel 
half-way  across  a  ten-acre  field  and  run  right 
spang  over  you  with  my  big  gray  before  you 
can  get  out  of  the  way.  There  ain't  but  one 
nag  I  'm  afraid  of,  and  that 's  Jack  Preston's 
roan  filly.  You  did  n't  bring  her,  did  you, 
Jack  ?  Well,"  continued  Collingsworth  with 
a  sigh,  as  Jack  nodded  assent,  "  I  '11  give 
you  one  tussle  anyhow.  But  that  roan  is  a 
half-sister  of  Waters's  Timoleon.     I  declare, 


HOW    WHALEBONE   CAUSED  A    WEDDING      19 

Jack,   you   ought  n't  to  be  riding  that  filly 
around  in  the  underbrush." 

"She  needs  exercise,"  Preston  explained. 
"  She  's  been  in  the  stable  eating  her  head  off 
for  a  week." 

Collingsworth  shook  his  head.  "Well," 
he  said,  after  a  while,  "  just  keep  her  on  the 
ground  and  I  '11  try  to  follow  along  after  you 
the  best  I  can." 

That  day  and  nearly  all  night  there  was 
fun  in  the  big  house  and  fun  on  the  planta- 
tion. The  colonel  insisted  on  havino-  some 
yam-potatoes  roasted  in  the  ashes  to  go  alono- 
with  persimmon  beer.  The  negroes  made  the 
night  melodious  with  their  play-songs,  and 
everything  combined  to  make  the  occasion  a 
memorable  one,  especially  to  the  young  peo- 
ple. Toward  bedtime  the  hunters  went  out 
and  inspected  their  dogs,  and  an  abundant 
feed  of  warm  ash-cake  was  served  out  to 
them.  Then  Tom  Collingsworth  hung  his 
saddle-blanket  on  the  fence,  and  under  it  and 
around  it  his  dogs  curled  themselves  in  the 
oak-leaves ;  and  the  rest  of  the  dogs  followed 
their  example,  so  that  when  morning  came 
not  a  hound  was  missing*. 

During  the  night  Mary  was  awakened  by 


20      HOW   WHALEBONE  CAUSED  A    WEDDING 

the  tramping  of  feet.  Some  one  had  come 
in.  Then  she  heard  the  voice  of  Collings- 
worth. 

"  How  is  it,  Harvey  ?  " 

"  Splendid  !  Could  n't  be  better.  It 's 
warmer.     Been  drizzling  a  little." 

"  Thank  the  Lord  for  that !  "  exclaimed 
Collingsworth. 

Then  Mary  heard  the  big  clock  in  the  hall 
chime  three.  In  a  little  while  she  heard 
Aunt  Dilsey,  the  cook,  shuffling  in.  A  fire 
was  already  crackling  and  blazing  in  the  sit- 
ting-room. Then  the  clock  chimed  four,  and 
at  once  there  seemed  to  be  a  subdued  stir 
all  over  the  house.  The  house -girl  came 
into  Mary's  room  with  a  lighted  candle  and 
quickly  kindled  a  fire,  and  in  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  the  young  lady  tripped  lightly  down- 
stairs, the  skirt  of  her  riding-habit  flung  over 
her  arm. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  company  of  fox- 
hunters  was  gathered  around  the  breakfast- 
table.  The  aroma  of  Aunt  Dilsey's  hot  coffee 
filled  the  room,  mingled  with  the  odor  of 
fried  chicken,  and,  after  the  colonel  had 
asked  a  blessing,  they  all  fell  to  with  a 
heartiness  of  appetite   that  made  Aunt  Dil- 


HOW    WHALEBONE   CAUSED  A    WEDDING      21 

sey  grin  as  she  stood  in  the  door  of  the 
dining-room,  giving  some  parting  advice  to 
her  young  mistress. 

There  was  a  stir  in  the  yard  and  in  front 
of  the  house.  The  dogs,  seeing  the  horses 
brought  out,  knew  that  there  was  fun  on 
foot,  and  they  were  running  about  and  yelp- 
ing with  delight.  And  the  negroes  were 
laughing;  and  talking-,  and  the  horses  snort- 
ing  and  whinnying,  and,  altogether,  the  scene 
was  full  of  life  and  animation.  The  morning 
was  a  little  damp  and  chilly,  but  what  did 
that  matter  ?  The  drifting  clouds,  tinged 
with  the  dim  twilight  of  dawn,  were  more 
ominous  in  appearance  than  in  fact.  They 
were  driving  steadily  eastward  and  breaking 
up,  and  the  day  promised  to  be  all  that  could 
be  desired. 

At  half  past  five  the  cavalcade  moved  off. 
Mary  had  disposed  of  a  possible  complication 
by  requesting  Tom  Collingsworth  to  be  her 
escort  until  the  hunt  should  need  his  atten- 
tion. In  addition,  she  had  Bob,  the  man-of- 
all-work,  to  look  to  her  safety,  and,  although 
Bob  was  astride  of  a  mule,  he  considered 
himself  as  well  mounted  as  any  of  the  rest. 
So  they  set  out,  Bob  leading  the  way  to  open 


22      HOW    WHALEBONE   CAUSED  A    WEDDING 

the  plantation  gates  that  led  to  the  old  sedge- 
fields,  where  a  fox  was  always  found. 

The  riders  had  been  compelled  to  make  a 
detour  in  order  to  cross  Murder  Creek,  so 
that  it  was  near  half-past  six  o'clock  when 
they  reached  the  fields.  Once  upon  a  time 
these  fields  had  been  covered  with  broom- 
sedge,  but  now  they  had  been  taken  by  Ber- 
muda grass,  and  were  as  clean-looking  as  if 
they  were  under  cultivation.  But  they  were 
still  called  the  old  sedge-fields. 

As  the  east  reddened,  the  huge  shadows 
crept  down  into  the  valleys  to  find  a  hiding- 
place.  They  rested  there  a  little,  and  then 
slowly  disappeared,  moving  westward,  and 
leaving  behind  them  the  light  of  day. 

Tom  Collingsworth  had  carried  Mary  to  a 
hill  that  overlooked  every  part  of  the  wide 
valley  in  which  the  dogs  were  hunting.  He 
had  been  teasing-  her  about  Colston  and  Pres- 
ton.     Finally  he  asked  :  — 

"  Now,  Miss  Mary,  which  of  the  two  would 
you  like  to  receive  the  brush  from  ?  " 

"  I  '11  allow  you  to  choose  for  me.  You 
are  a  good  judge." 

"  Well,"  said  Collingsworth,  "  if  a  man 
was  to   back  me    up    against    the  wall,   and 


HOW  WHALEBONE  CAUSED  A    WEDDING      23 

draw  a  knife  on  me,  and  I  could  n't  help 
myself,  I  'd  say  Preston.     That 's  a  fact." 

What  Mary  would  have  said  the  old  hunter 
never  knew  until  long  afterward,  for  just  at 
that  moment  a  quavering,  long-drawn  note 
came  stealing  up  from  the  valley  below. 

"  That 's  my  beauty  !  "  exclaimed  Collings- 
worth. "  That 's  Music,  telling  what  she 
thinks  she  knows.     Wait !  " 

Again  the  long-drawn  note  came  out  of  the 
valley,  but  this  time  it  was  eager,  significant. 

"  Now  she  's  telling  what  she  knows,"  ex- 
claimed Collingsworth. 

The  dogs  went  scampering  to  the  signal. 
Music  was  not  indulging  in  any  flirtation. 
The  drag  was  very  warm.  Whalebone,  Matt 
Kilpatrick's  brag  dog,  picked  it  up  with  an 
exultant  cry  that  made  the  horses  prick  their 
ears  forward.  Then  Rowan  joined  in,  and 
presently  it  was  taken  up  by  every  ambitious 
dog  on  the  ground.  But  there  seemed  to  be 
some  trouble.  The  dogs  made  no  headway. 
They  were  casting  about  eagerly,  but  in  con- 
fusion. 

"  If  you  '11  excuse  me,  Miss  Mary,  I  '11  go 
down  and  try  to  untangle  that  skein.  That 
fox  is  n't  forty  yards  from  Music's  nose." 


24      HOW    WnALEBONE  CAUSED   A    WEDDING 

He  spurred  his  horse  forward,  but  had  to 
rein  him  up  again.  Whalebone  swept  out  of 
the  underbrush,  a  hundred  yards  away,  fol- 
lowed by  Music  and  Rowan,  gave  a  wild, 
exultant  challenge  that  thrilled  and  vibrated 
on  the  air,  and  went  whirling  past  Mary  and 
Collingsworth  not  fifty  yards  from  where  they 
stood.  Collingsworth  gave  a  series  of  yells 
that  brought  the  whole  field  into  the  chase, 
not  far  behind  the  leaders. 

The  drag  led  through  and  across  a  series 
of  undulations,  and  Miss  Mary  and  Collings- 
worth, cantering  leisurely  along  a  skirting 
ridge,  had  an  excellent  view  of  hunt  and 
huntsmen.  The  draff  was  warm  enough  to 
be  inviting,  but  not  warm  enough  to  excite 
the  hounds.  Whalebone,  Music,  and  Rowan 
were  running  easily  twenty  yards  ahead  of 
the  pack,  and  for  a  good  part  of  the  time  a 
horse-blanket  would  have  covered  them. 

It  was  evident,  Mr.  Collingsworth  said, 
that  the  fox  had  run  around  at  the  head  of 
the  valley  in  some  confusion,  and  had  then 
slipped  away  before  the  hunt  came  upon  the 
ground.  It  was  a  red,  too,  for  a  gray  would 
have  played  around  in  the  undergrowth  with 
the  doo-s  at  his  heels  before  breakingr  cover. 


HOW   WHALEBONE  CAUSED  A    WEDDING      25 

The  ridge  along  which  Miss  Mary  and  Col- 
lingsworth rode  bore  gradually  to  the  left, 
inclosing  for  three  miles  or  more  a  low  range 
of  Bermuda  hills,  and  a  series  of  sweeping 
valleys,  fringed  here  and  there  with  pine  and 
black-jack  thickets. 

The  chase  led  toward  the  point  where  this 
ridge  intersected  the  woodland  region,  so  that 
the  young  lady  and  Collingsworth  not  only 
had  an  almost  uninterrupted  view  of  the  hunt 
from  the  moment  the  hounds  got  away,  but 
were  taking  a  short  cut  to  the  point  whither 
the  dogs  seemed  to  be  going.  Both  Preston 
and  Colston  were  well  up  with  the  hounds, 
but  Preston's  roan  filly  was  going  at  a  much 
easier  gait  than  Colston's  sorrel. 

Where  the  rid^e  and  the  hunt  entered  the 
woods  there  was  what  is  known  as  a  "  clay 
gall,"  a  barren  spot,  above  two  acres  in  ex- 
tent. The  surface  soil  had  been  washed  away 
and  the  red  clay  lay  bare  and  unproductive. 
At  this  point  the  fox  seemed  to  have  taken 
unto  himself  wing's.     The  drag*  had  vanished. 

Who  can  solve  the  mystery  of  scent  ? 
Xenophon,  who  knew  as  much  (and  as  little) 
about  it  as  anybody  knew  before  or  has 
known  since,  puzzled  himself  and  his  readers 


26      HOW   WHALEBONE  CAUSED  A    WEDDING 

with  a  dissertation  on  the  subject.  There  is 
a  superstition  that  wild  animals  can  withhold 
their  scent,  and  there  is  a  theory  held  by 
some  hunters  that  a  fox  badly  frightened 
will  leave  no  scent  behind  him  at  all.  Those 
who  have  followed  the  hounds  know  that 
many  a  hopeful  chase  has  suddenly  come  to 
an  end  under  circumstances  as  mysterious  as 
they  were  exasperating. 

The  old  riders  looked  at  one  another  sig- 
nificantly when  the  dogs  ran  whining  about 
the  clay  gall.  Matt  Kilpatrick  groaned  and 
shook  his  head.  Harvey  Dennis  encouraged 
the  dogs  and  urged  them  on,  and  they  seemed 
to  do  their  best,  but  not  a  whimper  came 
from  the  noisiest  of  the  pack.  Some  of  the 
huntsmen  began  to  exhibit  signs  of  despair. 
But  the  older  ones  were  more  philosophical. 

"  Wait,"  said  Matt  Kilpatrick.  "  Whale- 
bone and  Music  and  Rowan  have  gone  off  to 
investigate  matters.  Let  's  hear  what  they 
have  to  say." 

This  seemed  to  be  a  pretty  tame  piece  of 
advice  to  give  a  parcel  of  impatient  people 
who  had  just  got  a  taste  of  the  chase,  but  it 
was  reasonable  ;  and  so  they  waited  with  such 
appearance  of  resignation  as  they  could  mus- 


HOW   WHALEBONE  CAUSED  A    WEDDING     27 

ter.     They  did  not  have  long  to  wait.     By 
the  time  Collingsworth  could  throw  a  lea-  over 
the  pommel  of  his   saddle  and  take  out  his 
pocket-knife  preparatory  to  whittling  a  twio- 
Whalebone  gave  a  short,  sharp  challenge  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  away.     He  was  joined  in- 
stantly by  Rowan  and  Music,  and  then  Bob 
the  negro,  gave  a  yell  as  he  heard  Old  Blue' 
the   colonel's    brag  dog,   put   in    his  mouth! 
Ihe  rest  of  the  dogs  joined  in  the  best  they 
could,  but  a  good  many  were  thrown  out,  for 
the  fox  had  been  taking   matters    easily,  it 
seems   until  he  heard  the  dogs  coming  over 
the  hills,  and  then  he  made  a  bee-line  for  Lit- 
tle Kiver,  seven  miles  away. 

The  chase  went  with  a  rush  from  the  mo- 
ment Whalebone  picked  up  the  drag  in  the 
big  woods.     When   the  fox  broke  away  he 
turned  sharply  to  the  left,  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments the  dogs  streamed  out  into  the  open 
and  struck  across  the  Bermuda  hills.    Mr   Col- 
mgsworth  still  escorting  Mary,  was  compelled 
to  let  his  big  gray  out  a  few  links.     It  was 
±un  for  the  young  lady,  who  had  a  quick  eye 
and  a  firm  hand.    She  gave  the  black  she  was 
riding  two  sharp  strokes  with  her  whip,  and, 
for  a  couple  of  miles,  she  set  the  pace  for  the 


28      HOW    WHALEBONE   CAUSED  A    WEDDING 

riders.  But  it  was  a  pace  not  good  for  the 
horses,  as  the  older  hunters  knew,  and  Col- 
lingrsworth  remonstrated. 

"  Don't  ride  so  hard,  Miss  Mary,"  he  said. 
"  You  '11  have  plenty  of  hard  riding  to  do 
when  that  old  red  comes  back.  I  'm  going  to 
take  my  stand  on  yonder  hill,  and  if  you  '11 
keep  me  company,  our  horses  will  be  fresh 
when  the  big  scuffle  comes." 

So  they  took  their  stand  on  the  hill,  and 
the  hounds  swept  away  toward  the  river,  fol- 
lowed by  the  more  enthusiastic  riders.  They 
were  riders,  however,  who  seemed  to  have  a 
knack  of  taking  care  of  their  horses.  When 
the  hounds  went  over  a  hill  the  music  of  their 
voices  rose  loud  and  clear ;  when  they  dipped 
down  into  the  valleys,  it  came  sweet  and  faint. 
They  disappeared  in  the  woods,  two  miles 
away,  and  their  melody  swelled  out  on  the 
morning  air  like  the  notes  of  some  powerful 
organ  softly  played.  Then  the  music  became 
fainter  and  fainter,  falling  on  the  ears  as 
gently  as  a  whisper,  and  finally  it  died  away 
altogether. 

"  Now,"  said  Collingsworth,  "  we  '11  ride  a 
half-mile  to  the  left  here,  and  I  think  we  '11 
then  be  in  the  hock  of  the  ham." 


HOW   WHALEBONE  CAUSED  A    WEDDING     29 

"  In  the  hock  of  the  ham ! "  exclaimed 
Mary. 

"  Oh,  I  was  talking  to  myself,"  explained 
the  gray  cavalier,  laughing.  "  If  you  '11  put 
a  ham  on  the  ground  and  make  an  outline  of 
it,  you  '11  get  a  good  map  of  this  chase,  in  my 
opinion.  The  line  at  the  big  end  of  the  ham 
will  be  Little  River.  The  line  on  the  right 
will  be  the  way  the  fox  went,  and  the  line  on 
the  left  will  be  the  way  he  '11  come  back.  If 
you  ask  me  why  a  fox  will  run  up  stream 
when  he 's  not  hard  pushed,  I  '11  never  tell 
you,  but  that 's  the  way  they  do." 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  passed  —  a  half-hour 
—  three  quarters.  Then,  far  to  the  left,  there 
came  upon  the  morning  wind  a  whimpering 
sound  that  gradually  swelled  into  a  chorus  of 
hounds. 

"  He  's  cut  out  a  bisror-er  ham  than  I 
thought  he  would,"  said  Collingsworth. 

The  sun  was  now  shining  brightly.  An 
old  bell-cow,  browsing  on  the  Bermuda  roots 
on  the  hillside,  lifted  her  head  suddenly  as 
she  heard  the  hounds,  and  the  klinof-kolano'le 
of  the  bell  made  a  curious  accompaniment 
to  the  music  of  the  dogs,  as  they  burst  from 
a  thicket  of  scrub-pine  and  persimmon  bushes 


30      HOW   WHALEBONE  CAUSED  A    WEDDING 

that  crowned  the  farthest  hill  on  the  left. 
There  was  a  short  pause  as  the  leading  dogs 
came  into  view  —  a  "little  bobble,"  as  Mr. 
Collingsworth  phrased  it  —  and  they  deployed 
about  very  rapidly,  knowing  by  instinct  that 
they  had  no  time  to  lose.  Old  Blue,  the 
colonel's  dog,  was  still  with  the  leaders,  and 
seemed  to  be  as  spry  as  any  of  them.  It  was 
Old  Blue,  in  fact,  that  recovered  the  drag  a 
little  to  the  right  of  the  point  where  the  dogs 
had  made  their  appearance.  The  chase  then 
swerved  somewhat  to  the  right,  and  half-way 
down  the  hill  the  dogs  took  a  running  jump 
at  a  ten-rail  fence.  Whalebone  took  it  in 
grand  style,  knocking  the  top-rail  off  be- 
hind him.  Rowan  and  Music  went  over 
easily,  but  Old  Blue  had  to  scramble  a  little. 
He  made  up  for  lost  time  when  he  did  get 
over,  and  Mary  grew  enthusiastic.  She  de- 
clared that  hereafter  Old  Blue  should  be 
treated  with  due  respect. 

By  this  time  the  rest  of  the  dogs  had  made 
their  appearance.  It  was  a  pretty  sight  to 
see  them  swarming,  helter-skelter,  over  the 
fence,  and  the  sweet  discord  their  voices 
made  was  thrilling:  indeed. 

A  rider  appeared  on  the  hill  to  the  left. 


HOW   WHALEBONE  CAUSED  A    WEDDING      31 

It  was  Preston,  and  lie  seemed  to  be  riding 
easily  and  contentedly.  On  the  hill  to  the 
right  the  silhouette  of  another  rider  appeared. 
It  was  Colston,  and  he  was  going  as  hard  as 
he  could.  The  fox,  too,  had  given  Colston 
a  decided  advantage,  for  he  had  swerved  con- 
siderably to  the  left,  a  fact  that  placed  Pres- 
ton nearly  a  half-mile  farther  from  the  dogs 
than  Colston  was. 

Collingsworth  glanced  at  Mary  and  smiled, 
but  she  did  not  return  the  smile.  She  was 
very  pale,  and  she  swished  the  air  with  her 
riding-whip  so  suddenly  and  so  vigorously 
that  her  horse  jumped  and  snorted. 

"  Don't  do  that,  child  !  "  said  Collings- 
worth, in  a  low  tone.  His  eye  had  run  ahead 
of  the  dogs,  and  he  caught  sight  of  the  fox, 
doubling  back  up  the  valley,  the  dogs  going 
down  on  one  side  of  a  low  swampy  growth 
that  extended  part  of  the  way  through  the 
low  ground,  and  the  fox  going  back  on  the 
other  side.  He  was  going  very  nimbly,  too, 
but  his  brush  was  heavy  with  dew,  and  his 
mouth  was  half  open. 

Mary  glanced  at  Collingsworth,  but  that 
gentleman  was  looking  steadily  at  Preston. 
Then   a  singular  thing  happened.     Preston, 


32      HOW    WHALEBONE  CAUSED  A    WEDDING 

riding1  to  the  hounds,  raised  his  right  hand 
above  his  head  and  held  it  there  an  instant. 
As  quick  as  a  flash,  Collingsworth  leaned 
from  his  saddle  and  shook  his  left  hand,  and 
then  bent  and  unbent  his  arm  rapidly.  Pres- 
ton's roan  filly  seemed  to  understand  it,  for 
she  made  three  or  four  leaps  forward,  and 
then  came  to  a  standstill. 

At  this  juncture  Mr.  Collingsworth  gave 
the  view  halloo,  —  once,  twice,  thrice,  —  and 
then  spurred  his  big  gray  toward  the  fox, 
which  was  now  going  at  full  speed.  Whale- 
bone responded  with  a  howl  of  delight  that 
rang  clear  and  sharp,  and  in  another  moment 
he  and  Rowan  and  Music  and  Old  Blue  were 
going  with  their  heads  up  and  tails  down. 
When  Bob,  the  negro,  saw  Old  Blue  going 
with  the  best,  he  gave  utterance  to  a  shout 
which  few  white  men  could  imitate,  but  which 
no  sensible  dog  could  misunderstand.  At  that 
instant  the  four  dogs  caught  sight  of  the  fox, 
and  they  went  after  him  at  a  pace  that  nei- 
ther he  nor  any  of  his  tribe  could  improve 
on.  He  plunged  into  the  swampy  barrier, 
was  forced  out,  and  the  dogs  ran  into  him  at 
the  roan  filly's  feet.  He  leaped  into  the  air 
with  a  squall,  and  fell  into  the  red  jaws  of 
Whalebone  and  Old  Blue. 


HOW   WHALEBONE  CAUSED  A    WEDDING      33 

Preston  leaped  from  the  filly  so  quickly 
that  some  of  the  others  thought  he  had  been 
thrown.  When  he  rose  to  his  feet  he  held 
the  coveted  brush  in  his  hand,  and  without 
saying  "  By  your  leave,"  tied  it  to  Miss 
Mary's  saddle-bow.  Mr.  Collingsworth 
growled  a  little  because  Music  was  not  the 
first  to  touch  the  fox.  But  otherwise  he 
seemed  to  be  very  happy.  Colston  rode  up, 
a  little  flushed,  but  he  was  not  sulky.  Mary 
seemed  to  pay  no  attention  whatever  to  the 
little  episode.  Her  face  was  somewhat  rosier 
than  usual,  but  this  was  undoubtedly  due  to 
the  excitement  and  exercise  of  the  chase. 

When  the  belated  hunters  arrived  —  those 
who  had  ambled  along  with  the  colonel — the 
whole  party  turned  their  horses'  heads  toward 
the  Rivers  place,  and,  as  they  went  along, 
Collingsworth  noticed  that  Mary  kej3t  watch- 
ing the  brush  to  see  that  it  was  not  lost. 

A  good  deal  more  might  be  said,  but  I 
simply  set  out  to  explain  why  Matt  Kilpat- 
rick  of  Putnam  used  to  laugh  and  say  that 
his  dog  Whalebone  caused  a  wedding". 


THE  COLONEL'S   "NIGGER  DOG" 

One  morning  Colonel  Rivers  of  Jasper, 
standing  on  his  back  porch,  called  to  a  negro 
man  who  was  passing  through  the  yard. 

"  Ben  !  " 

«  Yasser  ! " 

"  How  's  everything  at  the  home  place  ?  " 

"  Tollerble,  suh,  —  des  tollerble." 

"  Tell  Shade  I  want  to  see  him  this  morn- 
ing." 

"  Unk  Shade  done  gone,  suh.  He  sho  is. 
He  done  gone  !  " 

"  Gone  where  ?  " 

"He  done  tuck  ter  de  woods,  suh.  Yas- 
ser !  he  done  ij-one  !  " 

A  frown  clouded  the  colonel's  otherwise 
pleasant  brow. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  the  old  simple- 
ton ?  " 

"  Some  kinder  gwines  on  'twix  him  an' 
Marse  Preston,  suh.  I  dunno  de  rights  un 
it.     But  Unk  Shade  done  gone,  suh  !  " 


THE  COLONEL'S  "NIGGER  DOG"  35 

"When  did  he  go?" 

"  Yistiddy,  suh." 

The  colonel  turned  and  went  into  the 
house,  and  the  negro  passed  on,  shaking  his 
head  and  talking  to  himself.  The  colonel 
walked  up  and  down  the  wide  hall  a  little 
while,  and  then  went  into  his  library  and 
flung  himself  into  an  easy-chair.  As  it  hap- 
pened, the  chair  sat  facing  his  writing-desk, 
and  over  the  desk  hung  a  large  portrait  of 
his  mother.  It  was  what  people  call  "a 
speaking  likeness,"  and  the  colonel  felt  this 
as  he  looked  at  it.  The  face  was  full  of 
character.  Firmness  shone  in  the  eyes  and 
played  about  the  lips.  The  colonel  regarded 
the  portrait  with  an  interest  that  was  almost 
new.  Old  Shade  in  the  woods, —  old  Shade 
a  runaway  !  What  would  his  mother  say  if 
she  were  alive  ?  The  colonel  felt,  too,  —  he 
could  not  help  but  feel, — that  he  was  largely 
responsible  for  the  fact  that  old  Shade  was  a 
fugitive. 

When  Mary  Rivers  married  Jack  Preston, 
the  colonel,  Mary's  father,  insisted  that  the 
couple  should  live  at  the  old  home  place. 
The  desire  was  natural.  Mary  was  the  apple 
of  his  eye,  and  he  wanted  to  see  her  rule  in 


36  THE  COLONEL'S  " NIGGER  DOG" 

the  home  over  which  his  mother  had  reiffned. 
The  colonel  himself  had  been  born  there,  and 
his  mother  had  lived  there  for  more  than 
forty  years.  His  father  had  died  in  1830, 
but  his  mother  lived  until  the  day  after  the 
fiftieth  anniversary  of  her  wedding. 

For  near  a  quarter  of  a  century  this  excel- 
lent lady  had  been  the  manager  of  her  own 
estate,  and  she  had  succeeded,  by  dint  of 
hard  and  pinching  economy  and  untiring 
energy,  in  retrieving  the  fortune  which  her 
husband  had  left  in  a  precarious  condition. 
It  was  said  of  the  colonel's  father,  William 
Rivers,  that  he  was  a  man  perverse  in  his 
ways  and  with  a  head  full  of  queer  notions, 
and  it  seems  to  be  certain  that  he  frittered 
away  large  opportunities  in  pursuit  of  small 
ones. 

When  William  Rivers  died  he  left  his 
widow  as  a  legacy  four .  small  boys  —  the 
colonel,  the  oldest,  was  in  his  teens  —  a 
past-due  mortgage  on  the  plantation,  and  a 
whole  raft  (as  you  may  say)  of  small  debts. 
She  had  one  consolation  that  she  breathed 
often  to  her  little  boys,  —  their  father  had 
lived  temperately  and  died  a  Christian.  Be- 
sides that  consolation,  she  had  an  abundance 


THE  COLONEL'S   "NIGGER   DOG"  37 

of  hope  and  energy.  She  could  have  sold  a 
negro  or  two,  but  there  were  only  a  dozen  of 
them,  big  and  little,  and  they  were  all  mem- 
bers of  one  family.  The  older  ones  had  grown 
up  with  their  mistress,  and  the  younger  ones 
she  had  nursed  and  attended  through  many 
an  hour's  sickness.  She  would  have  parted 
with  her  rio-ht  hand  sooner  than  sell  one  of 
them.  She  took  her  little  boys  from  school 
—  the  youngest  was  ten  and  the  oldest  four- 
teen —  and  put  them  to  work  in  the  fields 
with  the  negroes  for  one  year.  At  the  end 
of  that  period  she  began  to  see  daylight,  as 
it  were,  and  then  the  boys  went  back  to 
school,  but  their  vacations  for  several  years 
afterward  were  spent  behind  the  plough.  She 
was  as  uncompromising  in  her  business  as  in 
her  religion.  In  one  she  stickled  for  the  last 
thrip  that  was  her  due  ;  in  the  other  she  be- 
lieved in  the  final  perseverance  of  the  saints. 
It  is  enough  to  say  that  she  succeeded. 
She  transacted  her  own  business.  She  did 
it  well  at  the  very  beginning,  and  thereafter 
with  an  aptitude  that  was  constantly  grow- 
ing. She  paid  the  estate  out  of  debt,  and 
added  to  it,  and  when  her  oldest  son  gradu- 
ated  at    Princeton,   she   had   the  finest  and 


38  THE  COLONEL'S   " NIGGER   BOG" 

most  profitable  plantation  in  Jasper  County. 
All  the  old  people  said  that  if  her  father, 
Judge  Walthall,  could  have  returned  to  life, 
he  would  have  been  proud  of  the  success  of 
his  daughter,  which  was  in  that  day  and  still 
remains  the  most  remarkable  event  in  the 
annals  of  Jasper  County. 

The  main  dependence  of  Mrs.  Rivers,  even 
after  her  boys  grew  up,  was  a  negro  man 
named  Shadrach.  He  grew  old  with  his  mis- 
tress and  imbibed  many  of  her  matter-of-fact 
ways  and  methods.  At  first  he  was  known 
as  Uncle  Shed,  but  the  negro  pronunciation 
lengthened  this  to  Shade,  and  he  was  known 
by  everybody  in  the  counties  round  as  Uncle 
Shade. 

Uncle  Shade  knew  how  important  his  ser- 
vices were  to  his  mistress  and  what  store  she 
set  by  his  energy  and  faithfulness,  and  the 
knowledge  made  him  more  independent  in 
his  attitude  and  temper  than  the  average 
negro.  The  truth  is,  he  was  not  an  aver- 
age negro,  and  he  knew  it.  He  knew  it  by 
the  fact  that  the  rest  of  the  negroes  obeyed 
his  most  exacting  orders  with  as  much  alac- 
rity as  they  obeyed  those  of  white  men,  and 
were  quite   as   anxious   to  please  him.     He 


THE  COLONEL'S   "NIGGER   BOG"  39 

knew  it,  too,  by  the  fact  that  his  mistress 
had  selected  him  in  preference  to  his  own 
father  to  take  charge  of  the  active  manage- 
ment of  the  plantation  business. 

The  selection  was  certainly  a  good  one. 
Whatever  effect  it  may  have  had  on  Uncle 
Shade,  it  was  the  salvation  of  the  plans  of 
his  mistress.  The  negro  seemed  to  have  a 
keen  appreciation  of  the  necessities  of  the 
situation.  He  worked  the  hands  harder  than 
any  white  man  could  have  worked  them,  and 
kept  them  in  a  good  humor  by  doing  as 
much  as  any  two  of  them.  The  Saturday 
half-holiday  was  abolished  for  a  time,  and 
the  ploughs  and  the  hoes  were  kept  going 
just  as  long  as  the  negroes  could  see  how  to 
run  a  furrow. 

A  theory  of  the  neighborhood  was  that 
Uncle  Shade  was  afraid  of  going  to  the  sher- 
iff's block,  and  if  this  theory  was  wrong  it 
was  at  least  plausible.  The  majority  of  those 
who  worked  under  Uncle  Shade  were  his  own 
flesh  and  blood,  but  his  mistress  had  made 
bold  to  hire  four  extra  negroes  in  order  to 
carry  out  the  plans  she  had  in  view,  and  these 
four  worked  as  hard  and  as  cheerfully  as  any 
of  the  rest. 


40  THE  COLONEL'S   " NIGGER   DOG" 

Such  was  the  energy  with  which  Uncle 
Shade  managed  the  rougher  details  of  the 
plantation  work,  that  at  the  end  of  the  first 
year  his  mistress  saw  her  way  clear  to  enlar- 
ging her  plans.  She  found  that  within  five 
years  she  would  be  able  to  pay  off  all  the 
old  debts  and  make  large  profits  to  boot.  So 
she  sent  her  boys  back  to  school,  bought  two 
of  the  four  hired  hands,  and  hired  four  more. 
These  new  ones,  under  Uncle  Shade's  man- 
agement, worked  as  willingly  as  the  others. 
In  this  way  the  estate  was  cleared  of  debt, 
and  gradually  enlarged,  and  Mrs.  Rivers  had 
been  able,  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  to  send  her 
boys  to  Princeton,  where  they  took  high  rank 
in  their  studies. 

The  youngest  drifted  to  California  in  the 
fifties,  and  disappeared ;  the  second  went  into 
business  in  Charleston  as  a  cotton  factor  and 
commission  merchant.  The  oldest,  after  tak- 
ing a  law  course,  settled  down  at  home,  prac- 
ticed law  a  little  and  farmed  a  great  deal. 
He  finally  fell  in  love  with  a  schoolma'am 
from  Connecticut.  His  mother,  who  had  been 
through  the  mill,  as  the  saying  is,  and  knew 
all  about  the  dignity  and  lack  of  dignity 
there  is  in  labor,  rather  approved  the  match, 


THE   COLONEL'S   "NIGGER  DOG"  41 

although  some  of  the  neighbors,  whose  pre- 
tensions were  far  beyond  their  possessions, 
shook  their  heads  and  said  that  the  young 
man  might  have  done  better. 

Nevertheless,  the  son  did  very  well  indeed. 
He  did  a  great  deal  better  than  some  of  those 
who  criticised  his  choice,  for  he  got  a  wife 
who  knew  how  to  put  her  shoulder  to  the 
wheel  when  there  was  any  necessity  for  it, 
and  how  to  economize  when  her  husband's 
purse  was  pinched.  The  son,  having  married 
the  woman  of  his  choice,  built  him  a  home 
within  a  stone's  throw  of  his  mother's,  and 
during  her  life  not  a  day  passed  but  he 
spent  a  part  of  it  in  her  company.  He  had 
always  been  fond  of  his  mother,  and  as  he 
grew  older,  his  filial  devotion  was  fortified 
and  strengthened  by  the  profound  impression 
which  her  character  made  on  him.  It  was  a 
character  that  had  been  moulded  on  heroic 
lines.  As  a  child,  she  had  imbibed  the  spirit 
of  the  Revolution,  and  everything  she  said 
and  did  was  flavored  with  the  energy  and  in- 
dependence that  gave  our  colonial  society  its 
special  and  most  beautiful  significance,  —  the 
significance  of  candor  and  simplicity. 

Something  of  his  mistress's  energy  and  in- 


42  THE  COLONEL'S  "NIGGER  DOG" 

dependence  was  reflected  in  the  character  of 
Uncle  Shade,  and  the  result  of  it  was  that 
he  was  not  very  popular  with  those  that  did 
not  know  him  well.  The  young  master  came 
back  from  college  with  a  highly  improved 
idea  of  his  own  importance.  His  mother, 
although  she  was  secretly  proud  of  his  airs, 
told  him  with  trenchant  bluntness  that  his 
vanity  stuck  out  like  a  pot-leg  and  must  be 
lopped  off.  This  was  bad  enough,  but  when 
Uncle  Shade  let  it  be  understood  that  he 
was  n't  going  to  run  hither  and  yon  at  the 
beck  and  call  of  a  boy,  nothing  prevented  a 
collision  but  the  firm  will  that  controlled 
everything  on  the  plantation.  After  that, 
both  the  young  master  and  the  negro  were 
more  considerate  of  each  other,  but  neither 
forgot  the  little  episode. 

When  the  young  man  married,  he  and 
Uncle  Shade  saw  less  of  each  other,  and 
there  was  no  more  friction  between  them  for 
four  or  five  years.  But  in  1850  the  negro's 
mistress  died,  and  he  and  the  rest  of  the 
negroes,  together  with  the  old  home  place, 
became  the  property  of  the  son,  who  was 
now  a  prosperous  planter,  looked  up  to  by 
his  neighbors,  and  given  the  title  of  colonel 


THE  COLONEL'S   " NIGGER  BOG"  43 

by  those  who  knew  no  other  way  of  showing 
their  respect  and  esteem.  But  in  her  will 
the  colonel's  mother  made  ample  provision, 
as  she  thought,  for  the  protection  of  Uncle 
Shade.  He  was  to  retain,  under  all  circum- 
stances, his  house  on  the  home  place ;  he 
was  never  to  be  sold,  and  he  was  to  be 
treated  with  the  consideration  due  to  a  ser- 
vant who  had  cheerfully  given  more  than 
the  best  part  of  his  life  to  the  service  of 
the  family. 

The  terms  of  the  will  were  strictly  com- 
plied with.  The  colonel  had  loved  his  mother 
tenderly,  and  he  respected  her  memory.  He 
made  it  a  point  to  treat  Uncle  Shade  with 
consideration.  He  appealed  to  his  judgment 
whenever  opportunity  offered,  and  frequently 
found  it  profitable  to  do  so.  But  the  old 
negro  still  held  himself  aloof.  Whether  from 
grief  at  the  death  of  his  mistress,  or  for  other 
reasons,  he  lost  interest  in  the  affairs  of  the 
plantation.  The  other  negroes  said  he  was 
"  lonesome,"  and  this  description  of  his  con- 
dition, vague  as  it  was,  was  perhaps  the  best 
that  could  be  given.  Except  in  the  matter 
of  temper,  Uncle  Shade  was  not  the  negro  he 
was  before  his  old  mistress  died. 


44  THE   COLONEL'S   "NIGGER   DOG" 

This  was  the  state  of  affairs  when  the  colo- 
nel's daughter,  Mary,  married  Jack  Preston 
in  1861.  When  this  event  occurred,  the 
colonel  insisted  that  the  young  couple  should 
take  up  their  abode  at  the  old  home  place. 
He  had  various  sentimental  reasons  for  this. 
For  one  thing,  Mary  was  very  much  like  her 
grandmother,  in  spite  of  her  youth  and 
beauty.  Those  who  had  known  the  old  lady 
remarked  the  "  favor  "  —  as  they  called  it  — 
as  soon  as  they  saw  the  granddaughter.  For 
another,  the  old  home  place  was  close  at  hand, 
almost  next  door,  and  the  house  and  grounds 
had  been  kept  in  apple-pie  order  by  Uncle 
Shade.  The  flower-garden  was  the  finest  to 
be  seen  in  all  that  region,  and  the  house  itself 
and  every  room  of  it  was  as  carefully  kept  as 
if  the  dead  mistress  had  simply  gone  on  a 
visit  and  was  likely  to  return  at  any  moment. 

Naturally,  the  young  couple  found  it  hard 
to  resist  the  entreaties  of  the  colonel,  particu- 
larly as  Mary  objected  very  seriously  to  living 
in  town.  So  they  went  to  the  old  home 
place,  and  were  affably  received  by  Uncle 
Shade.  They  found  everything  arranged  to 
their  hands. 

Their  first  meal  at  the  old  home  place  was 


THE  COLONEL'S   "NIGGER  DOG"  45 

dinner.  The  colonel  had  told  Uncle  Shade 
that  he  would  have  company  at  noon,  and 
they  found  the  dinner  smoking  on  the  table 
when  they  arrived.  A  young  negro  man  was 
set  to  wait  on  the  table.  He  made  some  blun- 
der, and  instantly  a  young  negro  girl  came 
in,  smiling,  to  take  his  place.  Uncle  Shade, 
who  was  standing  in  the  door  of  the  dining- 
room,  dressed  in  his  Sunday  best,  took  the 
offender  by  the  arm  as  he  passed  out,  and  in 
a  little  while  those  who  were  at  table  heard 
the  swish  of  a  buggy  whip  as  it  fell  on  the 
negro's  shoulders.  The  unusual  noise  set  the 
chickens  to  cackling,  the  turkeys  to  gobbling, 
and  the  dog's  to  barking". 

"  Old  man,"  said  Preston,  when  Uncle 
Shade  had  gravely  resumed  his  place  near 
the  dining-room  door,  "  take  'em  farther 
away  from  the  house  the  next  time  you  kill 
em." 

"  I  '11  do  so,  suh,"  replied  Uncle  Shade 
dryly,  and  with  a  little  frown. 

Matters  went  along  smoothly  enough  for 
all  concerned,  but  somehow  Preston  failed  to 
appreciate  the  family  standing  and  importance 
of  Uncle  Shade.  The  young  man  was  as  genial 
and  as  clever  as  the  day  is  long,  but  he  knew 


46  TEE  COLONEL'S   " NIGGER  DOG" 

nothing  of  the  sensitiveness  of  an  old  family 
servant.  On  the  other  hand,  Uncle  Shade 
had  a  dim  idea  of  Preston's  ignorance,  and 
resented  it.  He  regarded  the  young  man  as 
an  interloper  in  the  family,  and  made  little 
effort  to  conceal  his  feelings. 

One  thing  led  to  another  until  finally  there 
was  an  explosion.  Preston  would  have  taken 
harsh  measures,  but  Uncle  Shade  gathered  up 
a  bundle  of  "  duds,"  and  took  to  the  woods. 

Nominally  he  was  a  runaway,  but  he  came 
and  went  pretty  much  as  suited  his  pleasure, 
always  taking  care  to  keep  out  of  the  way  of 
Preston. 

At  last  the  colonel,  who  had  made  the  way 
clear  for  Uncle  Shade  to  come  back  and  make 
an  apology,  grew  tired  of  waiting  for  that 
event ;  the  longer  he  waited,  the  longer  the 
old  negro  stayed  away. 

The  colonel  made  one  or  two  serious  efforts 
to  see  Uncle  Shade,  but  the  old  darky,  mis- 
understanding his  intentions,  made  it  a  point 
to  elude  him.  Finding  his  efforts  in  this  di- 
rection unavailing,  the  colonel  grew  angry. 
He  had  something  of  his  mother's  disposition 
—  a  little  of  her  temper  if  not  much  of  her 
energy  —  and  he  decided  to  take  a  more  seri- 


THE  COLONEL'S   "NIGGER  DOG"  47 

ous  view  of  Uncle  Shade's  capers.  It  was  a 
shame  and  a  disgrace,  anyhow,  that  one  of 
the  Rivers  negroes  should  be  hiding  in  the 
woods  without  any  excuse,  and  the  colonel 
determined  to  put  an  end  to  it  once  for  all. 
He  would  do  more  —  he  would  teach  Uncle 
Shade  once  for  all  that  there  was  a  limit  to 
the  forbearance  with  which  he  had  been 
treated. 

Therefore,  after  trying  many  times  to  cap- 
ture Uncle  Shade  and  always  without  success, 
the  colonel  announced  to  his  wife  that  he  had 
formed  a  plan  calculated  to  bring  the  old 
negro  to  terms. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  his  wife  asked. 

"  Well,  I  '11  tell  you,"  said  the  colonel,  hes- 
itating a  little.  "  I  'm  going  to  get  me  a 
nigger  dog  and  run  old  Shade  down  and 
catch  him,  if  it  takes  me  a  year  to  do  it." 

The  wife  regarded  the  husband  with  amaze- 
ment. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Rivers,  what  are  you  thinking 
of?"  she  exclaimed.  "You  don't  mean  to 
tell  me  that  you  are  going  to  put  yourself  on 
a  level  with  Bill  Favers  and  go  trolloping 
around  the  country,  hunting  negroes  with 
hound-dogs?     I   never   heard   you    say    that 


48  THE  COLONEL'S    " NIGGER  DOG" 

any  o£  your  family  ever  stooped  to  such  as 
that." 

"  They  never  did,"  the  colonel  rejoined 
testily.  "  But  they  never  had  such  a  rantan- 
kerous  nigfffer  to  deal  with." 

"  Just  as  he  is,  just  so  he  was  made,"  was 
Mrs.  Rivers's  matter-of-fact  comment. 

"  I  know  that  mighty  well,"  said  the 
colonel.  "  But  the  time  has  come  when  he 
ought  to  be  taken  in  hand.  I  could  get  Bill 
Favers's  dogs  and  run  him  down  in  an  hour, 
but  I  'm  going  to  catch  my  own  nigger  with 
my  own  nigger  dog." 

"  Why,  Mr.  Rivers,  you  have  n't  a  dog  on 
the  place  that  will  run  a  pig  out  of  the  gar- 
den, much  less  catch  a  negro.  There  are  ten 
or  fifteen  hound-dogs  around  the  yard,  and 
they  are  actually  too  no-account  to  scratch 
the  fleas  off." 

"  Well,"  replied  the  colonel,  wincing  a  lit- 
tle, "  Matt  Kilpatrick  has  promised  to  give 
me  one  of  his  beagles,  and  I  'm  going  to 
take  him  and  train  him  to  track  niggers." 

"  Another  dog  on  the  place  !  "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Rivers.  "  Well,  you  '11  have  to  sell 
some  negroes.  We  can't  afford  to  feed  a  lot 
of  no-account  negroes   and   no-account  dogs 


THE  COLONEL'S   " NIGGER   DOG"  49 

without  selling-  something.  You  can't  even 
give  the  dogs  away  —  and  I  would  n't  let  you 
impose  on  anybody  that  way,  if  you  could  ; 
so  you  '11  have  to  sell  some  of  the  negroes. 
They  are  lazy  and  no-account  enough,  good- 
ness knows,  but  they  can  manage  to  walk 
around  and  pick  up  chips  and  get  a  thimble- 
ful of  milk  from  twenty  cows,  and  sweep  off 
the  porch  when  there  's  anybody  to  keep 
them  awake." 

Nevertheless,  the  colonel  got  his  beagle, 
and  he  soon  came  to  take  more  interest  in  it 
than  in  all  his  other  dogs.  He  named  it  Jeff, 
after  Matt  Kilpatrick's  old  beagle,  and  Jeff 
turned  out  to  be  the  cutest  little  dog  ever 
seen  in  that  section.  The  colonel  trained  him 
assiduously.  Twice  a  day  he  'd  hold  Jeff  and 
make  one  of  the  little  negroes  run  down  by 
the  spring-house  and  out  across  the  cow-lot. 
When  the  little  negro  was  well  out  of  sight 
the  colonel  would  unleash  Jeff  and  away  the 
miniature  hunt  would  go  across  the  fields, 
the  colonel  cheering  it  on  in  regulation  style. 

The  colonel's  "  nigger  dog  "  was  eight 
months  old  when  he  was  taken  in  hand,  and  by 
the  time  he  was  a  year  old  he  had  developed 
amazingly.    The  claim  was  gravely  made  that 


50  THE   COLONEL'S   " NIGGER   DOG" 

he  had  a  colder  nose  than  Bill  Favers's  dog 
Sound,  who  could  follow  a  scent  thirty-six 
hours  old.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  the 
training  of  Jeff  Avent  no  farther  than  tracking 
the  little  negroes  within  si^ht  of  the  house. 
The  time  speedily  came  when  he  was  put 
on  the  trails  of  negroes  who  had  hours  the 
start,  —  negroes  who  crept  along  on  fences 
and  waded  wide  streams  in  their  efforts  to 
baffle  the  dog. 

But  Jeff  was  not  easily  baffled.  He  devel- 
oped such  intelligence  and  such  powers  of 
discriminating  scent  as  would  have  put  to 
shame  the  lubberly  and  inefficient  dogs  known 
as  bloodhounds.  Bloodhounds  have  figured 
very  largely  in  fiction  and  in  the  newspapers 
as  the  incarnation  of  ferocity  and  intelligence. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  Jeff,  the  little  beagle, 
could  have  whipped  a  shuck-pen  full  of  them 
without  ever  showing  his  teeth,  and  he  could 
run  half  a  mile  while  a  bloodhound  was 
holding1  his  senseless  head  in  the  air  to  give 
tongue. 

Naturally  the  colonel  was  very  proud  of 
Jeff.  He  had  the  dog  always  at  his  heels, 
whether  going  to  town  or  about  the  planta- 
tion, and  he  waited  for    the   opportunity  to 


THE  COLONEL'S   " NIGGER   DOG"  51 

come  when  be  might  run  Uncle  Shade  to  his 
hiding-place  in  the  swamps  of  Murder  Creek 
and  capture  him.  The  opportunity  was  not 
long  in  coming,  though  it  seemed  long  to  the 
colonel's  impatience. 

There  was  this  much  to  be  said  about  Uncle 
Shade.  He  had  grown  somewhat  wary,  and 
he  had  warned  all  the  negroes  on  both  plan- 
tations that  if  they  made  any  reports  of  his 
movements,  the  day  of  wrath  would  soon 
come  for  them.  And  they  believed  him  fully, 
so  that,  for  some  months,  he  might  have  been 
whirled  away  on  a  cloud  or  swallowed  by  the 
earth  for  all  the  colonel  could  hear  or  dis- 
cover. 

But  one  day,  while  he  was  dozing  in  his 
library,  he  heard  a  dialogue  between  the 
housemaid  and  the  cook.  The  housemaid 
was  sweeping  in  the  rear  hall,  and  the  cook 
was  fixing  things  in  the  dining-room.  They 
judged  by  the  stillness  of  the  house  that  there 
was  no  one  to  overhear  them. 

"  Mighty  quare  'bout  Unk  Shade,"  said  the 
house-girl. 

"  Huh  !  dat  ole  nigger-man  de  devil,  mon  ! " 
replied  the  cook,  rattling  the  dishes. 

"  I   boun'  ef  'twuz  any  er  we-all  gwine  on 


52  THE  COLONEL'S   "NIGGER   DOG" 

dat  away  runnin'  off  an'  comin'  back  when  we 
git  good  an'  ready,  an'  eatin'  right  dar  in  de 
house  in  broad  daylight,  an'  marster  gwine 
right  by  de  do'  —  I  boun'  you  we  'd  be  kotch 
an'  fotch  back,"  remarked  the  girl,  in  an  in- 
jured tone. 

"  La  !  I  ain't  studyin'  'bout  ole  Shade 
kingin'  it  'roun'  here,"  exclaimed  the  cook. 
"  He  been  gwine  on  dat  away  so  long  dat 
't  ain't  nothin'  new."  Here  she  paused  and 
laughed  heartily. 

"  What  you  laughin'  at  ?  "  inquired  the 
girl,  pausing  in  her  work. 

"  At  de  way  dat  ole  nigger  man  been  gwine 
on,"  responded  the  cook.  "  I  hear  tell  dat 
marster  got  dat  ar  little  houn'-dog  trainin' 
now  fer  ter  track  ole  Shade  down.  Dar  de 
dog  an'  dar  old  Shade,  but  dey  ain't  been  no 
trackin'  done  yit.  Dat  dog  bleedzter  be  no 
'count,  kaze  all  he  got  ter  do  is  to  go  down 
dar  by  the  house  whar  ole  Shade  live  at 
'twix'  daybreak  an'  sun-up,  an'  dar  he  '11 
fin'  de  track  er  dat  ole  nigger  man  hot  an' 
fresh." 

"  I  don't  keer  ef  dey  does  ketch  'im,"  said 
the  house-girl,  by  way  of  comment.  "  De  wuss 
frailin'   I   ever  got  he   <n'   me.      He  skeer'd 


THE  COLONEL'S   " NIGGER  BOG"  53 

me  den,  an'  I  been  skeer'd  un  'im  fum  dat 
day." 

"  De  white  folks  kin  git  'im  any  time  dey 
want  'im,"  said  the  cook.  "But  you  hear 
me  !  —  dey  don't  want  'im." 

"  Honey,  I  b'lieve  you,"  exclaimed  the  girl. 

At  this  juncture  the  colonel  raised  his  head 
and  uttered  an  exclamation  of  anger.  In- 
stantly there  was  the  most  profound  silence 
in  the  dining-room  and  in  the  hall.  The 
house-girl  slipped  up  the  stairway  as  noise- 
lessly as  a  ghost,  and  the  cook  disappeared 
as  if  by  magic. 

The  colonel  called  both  negroes,  but  they 
seemed  to  be  out  of  hearing.  Finally  the  cook 
answered.  Her  voice  came  from  the  spring 
lot,  and  it  was  the  voice  of  conscious  inno- 
cence. It  had  its  effect,  too,  for  the  colonel's 
heavy  frown  cleared  away,  and  he  indulged 
in  a  hearty  laugh.  When  the  cook  came  up, 
he  told  her  to  have  breakfast  the  next  morn- 
ing by  sunrise. 

The  woman  knew  what  this  meant,  and  she 
made  up  her  mind  accordingly.  In  spite  of 
the  fact  that  she  pretended  to  despise  Uncle 
Shade,  she  had  a  secret  respect  for  his  in- 
dependence of  character,  and  she  resolved  to 


54  THE  COLONEL'S   "NIGGER   DOG" 

repair,  as  far  as  she  knew  how,  the  damage 
her  unbridled  tongue  had  wrought. 

Thus  it  was  that  when  Uncle  Shade  made 
his  appearance  that  night  he  found  the  cook 
nodding  by  the  chimney  corner,  while  his  wife 
was  mending  some  old  clothes.  A  covered 
skillet  sat  near  the  fire,  and  a  little  mound  of 
ashes  in  one  corner  showed  where  the  ash- 
cake  was  baking  or  the  sweet  potatoes  roast- 
ing. Uncle  Shade  said  nothing.  He  came 
in  silently,  placed  his  tin  bucket  in  the  hearth, 
and  seated  himself  on  a  wooden  stool.  There 
was  no  greeting  on  the  part  of  his  wife.  She 
laid  aside  her  mending,  and  fixed  his  supper 
on  a  rude  table  close  at  hand. 

"  I  speck  you  mus'  be  tired,"  she  said  when 
everything  was  ready  —  "  tired  and  hongry 
too." 

Uncle  Shade  made  no  response.  He  sat 
gazing  steadily  into  the  pine-knot  flame  in 
the  fireplace  that  gave  the  only  light  in  the 
room. 

"  De  Lord  knows  I  'd  quit  hidin'  out  in  de 
woods  ef  I  wuz  you,"  said  his  wife.  "  I 
would  n't  be  gwine  'roun'  like  some  wil'  var- 
mint  —  dat  I  would  n't  !  —  I'd  let  urn  come 
git  me  an'  do  what  dey  gwine  ter  do.  Dey 
can't  kill  you." 


THE  COLONEL'S   "  NIGGER  DOG"  55 

"  Dat  's  so,"  exclaimed  the  cook,  by  way 
of  making  herself  agreeable. 

Uncle  Shade  raised  his  eyebrows  and  looked 
at  the  woman  until  she  moved  about  in  her 
chair  uneasily. 

"  How  come  you  ain't  up  yonder  whar  you 
b'long  ?  "  he  asked.  He  was  not  angry  ;  the 
tone  of  his  voice  was  not  even  unkind ;  but 
the  cook  was  so  embarrassed  that  she  could 
hardly  find  her  tongue. 

"  I  'm  here  kaze  marster  tol'  me  ter  get 
brekkus  by  sun-up,  an'  I  know  by  de  way 
he  done  dat  he  gwine  ter  come  and  put  dat 
ar  nigger  dog  on  yo'  track." 

"  What  good  dat  gwine  ter  do  ?  "  Uncle 
Shade  asked. 

"  Now,  ez  ter  dat,"  replied  the  cook,  "  I 
can't  tell  you.  It  may  do  harm,  an'  it  may 
not,  but  what  good  it  gwine  ter  do,  I  'in 
never  is  ter  tell  you." 

"  What  de  dog  gwine  ter  do  ?  "  inquired 
Uncle  Shade. 

The  cook  looked  at  the  other  woman  and 
laughed,  and  then  rose  from  her  seat,  adjust- 
ing her  head  handkerchief  as  she  did  so. 

"  You  mos'  too  much  fer  me,"  she  re- 
marked as  she  went  toward  the  door.     "  Mos' 


56  THE   COLONEL'S   " NIGGER   BOG" 

a  long  ways  too  much.  Ef  you  kin  git  off  de 
groun'  an'  walk  in  de  elements,  de  dog  ain't 
gwine  do  notliin'.  Maybe  you  kin  do  dat ; 
I  dunno.  But  ef  you  can't  dat  ar  dog  '11  track 
you  down  sko  ez  you  er  settin'  dar."  Then 
she  went  out. 

Uncle  Shade  ate  his  supper  and  then  sat  be- 
fore the  fire  smoking  his  pipe.  After  a  while 
he  got  a  piece  of  candle  out  of  an  old  cigar- 
box,  lit  it,  and  proceeded  to  ransack  a  wooden 
chest  which  seemed  to  be  filled  with  all  sorts 
of  odds  and  ends,  —  gimlets,  hinges,  horn  but- 
tons, tangled  twine,  quilt  pieces,  and  broken 
crockery.  At  the  bottom  he  found  what  he 
was  looking  for,  —  a  letter  that  had  been 
rolled  in  cylindrical  shape.  Around  it  had 
been  wrapped  a  long  strip  of  cloth.  He  un- 
rolled the  package,  took  the  letter  out  and 
looked  at  it,  rolled  it  up  again,  and  then 
placed  it  carefully  in  his  hat. 

"  Well,  den,"  said  his  wife,  "  what  you 
gwine  ter  do  ?  " 

"  I  '11  tell  you,"  he  said.  He  leaned  over 
and  placed  one  hand  on  her  knee.  "  Ef  he 
don't  ketch  me,  I  ain't  comin'  back.  Ef  he 
ketch  me,  I  '11  show  'im  dat,"  —  indicating 
the  letter,  —  "  an'  ef   dat  ain't  do  no  good, 


THE  COLONEL'S   " NIGGER  DOG"  57 

I  'm  gwine  ter  jump  off  Injun  Bluff  in  de 
river." 

"  Sho  nuff  ? "  liis  wife  asked,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  Slio  nuff  !  "  he  answered,  in  a  voice  as  low. 

The  woman  sighed  as  she  rose  from  her 
chair  to  clear  away  the  little  table.  In  a  little 
while  she  began  to  sing  a  hymn,  and  by  that 
time  Uncle  Shade,  lying  across  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  was  fast  asleep. 

The  cook,  out  of  abundant  caution,  gave 
her  master  his  breakfast  before  sunrise.  The 
colonel  called  Jeff  into  the  dining-room  and 
gave  him  some  substantial  scraps  of  warm 
victuals  —  an  unheard-of  proceeding  in  that 
house. 

After  breakfast  the  colonel  mounted  his 
horse,  which  was  standing  saddled  at  the 
gate,  and  rode  over  to  the  old  home  place. 
He  rode  straight  to  Uncle  Shade's  house, 
called  a  negro  to  hold  his  horse,  and  went  in, 
followed  by  Jeff. 

"  Where  did  Shade  sleep  last  night  ?  "  he 
asked  of  Shade's  wife. 

"  Well,  suh,  what  little  sleepin'  he  done, 
he  done  right  dar,  suh  —  right  dar  in  de  baid, 
suh." 


58  THE  COLONEL'S   " NIGGER   DOG'" 

The  colonel  pulled  off  one  of  the  blankets, 
made  Jeff  smell  of  it,  and  then  went  out  and 
mounted  his  horse.  Once  in  the  saddle,  he 
spoke  an  encouraging  word  to  the  dog.  The 
task  set  for  Jeff  was  much  more  difficult  than 
the  colonel  thought  it  was.  The  dogf  circled 
around  the  house,  once,  twice,  thrice,  his  nose 
to  the  ground.  Then  he  ran  back  to  the 
door,  and  tried  to  unravel  the  riddle  again. 
He  went  off  a  little  way,  flung  back,  and  en- 
tered the  house,  nosed  the  bed  carefully,  and 
then  came  out,  giving  tongue  for  the  first 
time. 

Near  by  was  a  low  wooden  bench.  Jeff 
leaped  upon  it  and  gave  tongue  again.  A 
piece  of  bacon-rind  lay  on  the  bench.  The 
dog  nosed  around  it  very  carefully.  The  colo- 
nel clenched  his  teeth  together.  "  If  he  eats 
that  meat-skin,"  he  thought,  "  I  '11  go  get  my 
gun  and  kill  him."  But  Jeff  did  no  such 
thing.  He  had  solved  a  problem  that  had 
puzzled  his  intelligent  nose,  and  he  sprang 
away  from  the  bench  with  a  ringing  chal- 
lenge. 

Some  of  the  negroes  who  had  been  watch- 
ing the  dog  looked  at  each  other  and  shook 
their  heads.    As  a  matter  of  fact,  Uncle  Shade 


THE  COLONEL'S  "NIGGER  DOG"  59 

had  sat  on  that  bench  and  greased  the  soles 
of  his  shoes  with  the  bacon-rind.  He  had  a 
theory  of  his  own  that  the  dog  would  be 
unable  to  follow  him  after  his  shoes  were 
greased. 

It  is  certain  that  Jeff  had  considerable  dif- 
ficulty in  getting  away  from  the  negro  quar- 
ters, for  Uncle  Shade,  true  to  his  habits,  had 
gone  to  several  of  the  cabins  and  issued  his 
orders,  laying  off  a  week's  work  for  the 
plough-hands,  and  telling  them  what  to  do 
in  the  event  that  rains  suspended  their  opera- 
tions. Patiently  Jeff  threaded  the  maze  of 
the  old  negro's  comings  and  goings,  and  at 
last  he  found  the  final  clue  at  the  stile  that 
led  from  the  negro  quarters  into  the  avenue. 

The  colonel  rode  around  by  the  big  gate, 
and  when  he  passed  through  Jeff  was  going 
down  the  big  avenue  at  a  pretty  lively  clip, 
but  he  was  not  running  as  freely  as  his  cus- 
tom was.  Where  a  bush  or  a  weed  touched 
the  footpath,  he  would  examine  it  with  his 
nose,  but  he  kept  the  colonel's  horse  in  a 
canter.  When  he  left  the  avenue  for  the 
public  road  he  ran  in  a  more  assured  manner, 
and  the  colonel  was  compelled  to  force  the 
canter  into  a  gallop. 


60  THE  COLONEL'S   " NIGGER  LOG" 

This  was  nothing  like  a  fox-hunt,  of 
course.  The  excitement  of  companionship 
and  rivalry,  and  the  thrill  of  the  restless  and 
eager-moving  pack  were  lacking,  but  the  en- 
thusiasm of  the  colonel  was  mingled  with 
pride  as  he  rode  after  the  dog  that  was  guid- 
ing him  so  swiftly  and  unerringly.  The  en- 
thusiasm was  as  persistent  as  the  pride.  But 
Jeff  had  no  room  for  such  emotions.  The 
path  of  duty,  straight  or  crooked,  lay  before 
him,  and  he  followed  it  up  as  nimbly  as  he 
could. 

The  colonel  was  puzzled  by  the  route  they 
were  taking".  He  had  heard  a  good  deal  of 
runaway  negroes,  and  had  seen  some  after 
they  were  caught,  but  he  had  always  ima- 
gined that  they  went  into  the  deep  woods  or 
into  the  dim  swamps  for  shelter  and  safety. 
But  here  was  old  Shade  going  poling  down 
the  public  road  where  every  passer-by  could 
see  him.  Or  was  the  dog  at  fault  ?  Was  it 
some  visiting-  negro  who  had  called  in  to  see 
the  negroes  at  the  home  place,  and  had  then 
gone  home  by  the  road  ? 

While  the  colonel  was  nursing  these  suspi- 
cions, Jeff  paused  and  ran  back  toward  him. 
At  a  low  place  in  the  fence,  the  dog  hesitated 


THE  COLONEL'S   "NIGGER  DOG"  61 

and  then  flung  himself  over,  striking  into  a 
footpath.  This  began  to  look  like  business. 
The  path  led  to  a  ravine,  and  the  ravine  must 
naturally  lead  to  a  swamp.  But  the  path 
really  led  to  a  spring,  and  before  the  colonel 
could  throw  a  few  rails  from  the  fence  and 
remount  his  horse,  Jeff  had  reached  the 
spring  and  was  clicking  up  the  hill  beyond 
in  the  path  that  led  back  to  the  road. 

It  appeared  that  Uncle  Shade  had  rested 
at  the  spring  a  while,  for  the  dog  went  for- 
ward more  rapidly.  The  spring  was  six 
miles  from  the  colonel's  house,  and  he  began 
to  have  grave  doubts  as  to  the  sagacity  of 
Jeff.  What  could  have  possessed  old  Shade 
to  run  away  by  this  public  route  ?  But  if 
the  colonel  had  doubts,  Jeff  had  none.  He 
pressed  forward  vigorously,  splashing  through 
the  streams  that  crossed  the  road  and  going 
as  rapidly  up  hill  as  he  went  down. 

The  colonel's  horse  was  a  good  one,  but 
the  colonel  himself  was  a  heavy  weight,  and 
the  pace  began  to  tell  on  the  animal.  Nev- 
ertheless, the  colonel  kept  him  steadily  at  his 
work.  Four  or  five  miles  farther  they  went, 
and  then  Jeff,  after  casting  about  for  a  while, 
struck  off  through  an  old  sedge  field. 


62  THE  COLONEL'S   "NIGGER   DOG" 

Here,  at  last,  there  was  no  room  for  doubt, 
for  Jeff  no  longer  had  to  put  his  nose  to  the 
ground.  The  tall  sedge  held  the  scent,  and 
the  dog  plunged  through  it  almost  as  rapidly 
as  if  he  had  been  chasing"  a  rabbit.  The 
colonel,  in  his  excitement,  cheered  the  dog 
on  lustily,  and  the  chase  from  that  moment 
went  at  top  speed. 

Uncle  Shade,  moving  along  on  a  bluff 
overlooking  Little  River,  nearly  a  mile  away, 
heard  it  and  paused  to  listen.  He  thought 
he  knew  the  voices  of  man  and  dog,  but  he 
was  not  sure,  so  he  lifted  a  hand  to  his  ear 
and  frowned  as  he  listened.  There  could  be 
no  doubt  about  it.  He  was  caught.  He 
looked  all  around  the  horizon  and  up  at  the 
glittering  sky.  There  was  no  way  of  escaj)e. 
So  he  took  his  bundle  from  the  end  of  his 
cane,  dropped  it  at  the  foot  of  a  huge  hick- 
ory-tree, and  sat  down. 

Presently  Jeff  came  in  sight,  running  like 
a  quarter-horse.  Uncle  Shade  thought  if  he 
could  manage  to  kill  the  dog,  there  would 
still  be  a  chance  for  him.  His  master  was 
not  in  sight,  and  it  would  be  an  easy  matter 
to  slip  down  the  bluff  and  so  escape.  But, 
no ;    the  dog   was   not   to   be   trapped.     His 


THE   COLONEL'S   "NIGGER  DOG"  63 

training  and  instinct  kept  him  out  of  the  old 
negro's  reach.  Jeff  made  a  wide  circle  around 
Uncle  Shade  and  finally  stopped  and  bayed 
him,  standing  far  out  of  harm's  way. 

The  old  negro  took  off  his  hat,  folded  it 
once  and  placed  it  between  his  head  and 
the  tree  as  a  sort  of  cushion.  And  then  the 
colonel  came  galloping  up,  his  horse  in  a 
lather  of  sweat.  He  drew  rein  and  con- 
fronted Uncle  Shade.  For  a  moment  he 
knew  not  what  to  say.  It  seemed  as  though 
his  anger  choked  him  ;  and  yet  it  was  not  so. 
He  was  nonplussed.  Here  before  him  was 
the  object  of  his  pursuit,  the  irritating  cause 
of  his  heated  and  hurried  journey.  There 
was  in  the  spectacle  that  which  drove  the 
anger  out  of  his  heart,  and  the  color  out 
of  his  face.  Here  he  saw  the  very  essence 
and  incarnation  of  helplessness,  —  an  old 
man  grown  gray  and  well-nigh  decrepit  in 
the  service  of  the  family,  who  had  witnessed 
the  very  beginning  and  birth,  as  it  were, 
of  the  family  fortune. 

What  was  to  be  done  with  him  ?  Here  in 
the  forest  that  was  almost  a  wilderness,  the 
spirit  of  justice  threatened  to  step  forth  from 
some  convenient  covert   and  take  possession 


64  THE  COLONEL'S   " NIGGER   DOG'' 

of  the  case.  But  the  master  had  inherited 
obstinacy,  and  pride  had  added  to  the  store. 
Anger  returned  to  her  throne. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  defying  me  in  this 
way  ?  "  the  colonel  asked  hotly.  "  What  do 
you  mean  by  running  away,  and  hiding  in 
the  bushes  ?  Do  you  suppose  I  am  going  to 
put  up  with  it  ?  " 

The  colonel  worked  himself  up  to  a  terri- 
ble pitch,  but  the  old  negro  looked  at  his 
master  with  a  level  and  disconcerting  eye. 

"  Well,  suh,"  replied  Uncle  Shade,  fum- 
bling with  a  pebble  in  his  hand,  "  ef  my 
mistiss  wuz  'bove  groun'  dis  day  I  'd  be 
right  whar  she  wuz  at,  —  right  dar  doin'  my 
work,  des  like  I  usen  ter.  Dat  what  I  mean, 
suh." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  you  impudent 
rascal,  that  because  your  mistress  is  dead  you 
have  the  privilege  of  running  off  and  hiding 
in  the  woods  every  time  anybody  snaps  a 
finger  at  you  ?  Why,  if  your  mistress  was 
alive  to-day  she  'd  have  your  hide  taken  off." 

"  She  never  is  done  it  yet,  suh,  an'  I  been 
live  wid  'er  in  about  fifty  year." 

"  Well,  I  'm  going  to  do  it,"  cried  the  colo- 
nel   excitedly.     He    rode    under   a    swinging 


THE  COLONEL'S   "NIGGER  DOG"  65 

limb  and  tied  his  horse.  A  leather  strap 
fixed  to  a  wooden  handle  hung  from  the  horn 
of  his  saddle.  "  Take  off  that  coat,"  he  ex- 
claimed curtly. 

Uncle  Shade  rose  and  began  to  search  in 
his  pockets.  "Well,  suh,"  he  said,  "'fo'  I 
does  dat  I  got  sump'n  here  I  want  you  to 
look  at." 

"  I  want  to  see  nothing,"  cried  the  colonel. 
"  I  've  put  up  with  your  rascality  until  I  'm 
tired.     Off  with  that  coat !  " 

"  But  I  got  a  letter  fer  you,  suh,  an'  dey 
tol'  me  to  put  it  in  yo'  han'  de  fus  time  you 
flew'd  up  an'  got  mad  wid  me." 

It  is  a  short  jump  from  the  extreme  of 
one  emotion  to  the  extreme  of  another.  The 
simplicity  and  earnestness  of  the  old  negro 
suddenly  appealed  to  the  colonel's  sense  of 
the  ridiculous,  and  once  more  his  an<?"er  took 
wings.  Uncle  Shade  searched  in  his  pockets 
until  he  suddenly  remembered  that  he  had 
placed  it  in  the  lining  of  his  hat.  As  he 
drew  it  forth  with  a  hand  that  shook  a  little 
from  excitement,  it  seemed  to  be  a  bundle  of 
rags.  "  It 's  his  conjure-bag,"  the  colonel 
said  to  himself,  and  at  the  thought  of  it  he 
could  hardly  keep  his  face  straight. 


66  THE  COLONEL'S   " NIGGER   DOG" 

Carefully  unrolling  the  long  strip  of  cloth, 
which  the  colonel  immediately  recognized  as 
part  of  a  dress  his  mother  used  to  wear,  Uncle 
Shade  presently  came  to  a  yellow  letter.  This 
he  handed  to  the  colonel,  who  examined  it 
curiously.  Though  the  paper  was  yellow 
with  age  and  creased,  the  ink  had  not  faded. 

"  What  is  this  ? "  the  colonel  asked  me- 
chanically, although  he  had  no  difficulty  in 
recognizing1  the  writing;  as  that  of  his  mother, 
—  the  stiff,  uncompromising,  perpendicular 
strokes  of  the  pen  could  not  be  mistaken. 
"  What  is  this  ?  "  he  repeated. 

"  Letter  fer  you,  suh,"  said  Uncle  Shade. 

"  Where  did  you  get  it  ?  "  the  colonel  in- 
quired. 

"  I  tuck  it  right  out  'n  mistiss'  han',  suh," 
Uncle  Shade  replied. 

The  colonel  put  on  his  spectacles  and 
spread  the  letter  out  carefully.  This  is  what 
he  read :  — 

My  dear  Son  :  I  write  this  letter  to  com- 
mend the  negro  Shade  to  your  special  care 
and  protection.  He  will  need  your  protec- 
tion most  when  it  comes  into  your  hand.  I 
have   told  him  that  in   the  hour  when    you 


THE  COLONEL'S   " NIGGER  DOG"  67 

read  these  lines  lie  may  surely  depend  on 
you.  He  has  been  a  faithful  servant  to  me  — 
and  to  you.  No  human  being  could  be  more 
devoted  to  my  interests  and  yours  than  he 
has  been.  Whatever  may  have  been  his 
duty,  he  has  gone  far  beyond  it.  But  for 
him,  the  estate  and  even  the  homestead 
would  have  ^one  to  the  sheriff's  block  lonsf 
ago.  The  fact  that  the  mortgages  have  been 
paid  is  due  to  his  devotion  and  his  judgment. 
I  am  grateful  to  him,  and  I  want  my  gratitude 
to  protect  him  as  long  as  he  shall  live.  I 
have  tried  to  make  this  plain  in  my  will,  but 
there  may  come  a  time  when  he  will  especially 
need  your  protection,  as  he  has  frequently 
needed  mine.  When  that  time  comes  I  want 
you  to  do  as  I  would  do.  I  want  you  to 
stand  by  him  as  he  has  stood  by  us.  To  this 
hour  he  has  never  failed  to  do  more  than  his 
duty  where  your  interests  and  mine  were 
concerned.  It  will  never  be  necessary  for 
him  to  give  you  this  letter  while  I  am  alive ; 
it  will  come  to  you  as  a  message  from  the 
grave.  God  bless  you  and  keep  you  is  the 
wish  of  your 

Mother. 


68  THE  COLONEL'S   "NIGGER  DOG" 

The  colonel's  bands  trembled  a  little  as  he 
folded  the  letter,  and  he  cleared  his  throat  in 
a  somewhat  boisterous  way.  Uncle  Shade 
held  out  his  hand  for  the  letter. 

"No,  no!"  the  colonel  cried.  "It  is  for 
me.  I  need  it  a  great  deal  worse  than  you 
do." 

Thereupon  he  put  the  document  in  his 
pocket.  Then  he  walked  off  a  little  way  and 
leaned  against  a  tree.  A  piece  of  crystal 
quartz  at  his  feet  attracted  his  attention.  A 
mussel  shell  was  lying  near.  He  stooped  and 
picked  them  both  up  and  turned  them  over 
in  his  hand. 

"  What  place  is  this?  "  he  asked. 

"  Injun  Bluff,  sub." 

"  Did  n't  we  come  out  here  fishing  once, 
when  I  was  a  little  boy  ?  " 

"  Yasser,"  replied  Uncle  Shade,  with  some 
animation.  "  You  wa'n't  so  mighty  little, 
nndder.  You  wuz  a  right  smart  chunk  of  a 
chap,  suh.  We  tuck  'n'  come'd  out  here,  an' 
fished,  an'  I  got  you  a  hankcher  full  er  deze 
here  quare  rocks,  an'  you  played  like  dey  wuz 
diamon's,  an'  you  up'd  an'  said  that  you  liked 
me  better  'n  you  liked  anybody  'ceppin'  yo' 
own    blood    kin.       But    times    done   change, 


THE  COLONEL'S   " NIGGEB   DOG"  69 

suh.  I  'hi  de  same  nigger,  but  yuther  folks 
ain't  de  same." 

The  colonel  cleared  his  throat  again  and 
pulled  off  his  spectacles,  on  which  a  mist  had 
gathered. 

"Whose  land  is  this?"  he  asked  presently. 

"  Stitli  Ingram's,  suh." 

"How  far  is  his  house  ?  " 

"  Des  cross  dat  fiel',  suh." 

"  Well,  take  my  hankcher  and  get  me 
some  more  of  the  rocks.  We  '11  take  'em 
home." 

Uncle  Shade  gathered  the  specimens  of 
quartz  with  alacrity.  Then  the  two,  Uncle 
Shade  leading  the  horse,  went  across  the 
field  to  Stith  Ingram's,  and,  as  they  went, 
Jeff,  the  colonel's  "  nigger  dog,"  fawned  first 
on  one  and  then  on  the  other  with  the  utmost 
impartiality,  although  he  was  too  weary  to  cut 
up  many  capers. 

Mr.  Ingram  himself,  fat  and  saucy,  was 
sitting  on  his  piazza  when  the  small  proces- 
sion came  in  sight.  He  stared  at  it  until  he 
saw  who  composed  it,  and  then  he  began  to 
laugh. 

"  Well,  I  declare  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "Well, 
the  great  Tecumseh !     Why,  colonel !     Why, 


70  THE  COLONEL'S   " NIGGER   DOG" 

what  in  the  world  !  I  'm  powerful  glad  to 
see  you !  Is  that  you,  Shade  ?  Well,  take 
your  master's  horse  right  round  to  the  lot 
and  brush  him  up  a  little.  Colonel,  come  in  ! 
It 's  been  a  mighty  long  time  since  you  've 
darkened  this  door.     Where 've  you  been?" 

"  I  've  just  been  out  training  my  nigger 
dog,"  the  colonel  replied.  "  Old  Shade 
started  out  before  day,  and  just  kept  moving. 
He  was  in  one  of  his  tantrums,  I  reckon. 
But  I  'm  glad  of  it.  It  gives  me  a  chance  to 
take  dinner  with  you." 

"  Glad  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Ingram.  "  Well, 
you  ain't  half  as  glad  as  I  am.  That  old 
Shade  's  a  caution.  Maybe  he  was  trying  to 
get  away,  sure  enough." 

"  Oh,  no,"  replied  the  colonel.  "  Shade 
knows  well  enough  he  could  n't  get  away 
from  Jeff." 

That  afternoon,  Mr.  Ingram  carried  the 
colonel  and  Jeff  home  in  his  buggy,  and 
Uncle  Shade  rode  the  colonel's  horse. 


A  RUN  OF  LUCK 

It  was  natural  that  the  war  and  its  re- 
sults should  bring  about  great  changes  in  the 
South ;  but  I  never  fully  realized  what  a 
wonderful  change  had  been  wrought  until, 
a  dozen  years  after  the  struggle,  business, 
combined  with  pleasure,  led  me  to  visit  the 
old  Moreland  Place,  in  middle  Georgia.  The 
whole  neighborhood  for  miles  around  had 
been  familiar  to  my  youth,  and  was  still  dear  to 
my  memory.  Driving  along  the  well-remem- 
bered road,  I  conjured  up  the  brilliant  and 
picturesque  spectacle  that  the  Moreland  Place 
presented  when  I  saw  it  last :  a  stately  house 
on  a  wooded  hill,  the  huge,  white  pillars  that 
supported  the  porch  rising  high  enough  to 
catch  the  reflection  of  a  rosy  sunset,  the  porch 
itself  and  the  beautiful  lawn  in  front  filled 
with  a  happy  crowd  of  lovely  women  and  gal- 
lant men,  young  and  old,  the  wide  avenues 
lined  with  carriages,  and  the  whole  place  lit 
up  (as  it  were)  and  alive  with  the  gay  commo- 


72  A  BUN   OF  LUCK 

tion  of  a  festival  occasion.  And  such  indeed 
it  was  —  the  occasion  of  the  home-coming:  of 
Linton  Moreland,  the  master,  with  a  hride  he 
had  won  in  far-off  Mississippi. 

The  contrast  that  now  presented  itself 
would  have  been  pathetic  if  it  had  not  been 
amazing.  The  change  that  had  taken  place 
seemed  impossible  enough  to  stagger  belief. 
It  had  been  easier  to  imagine  that  some  con- 
vulsion had  swept  the  Moreland  Place  from 
the  face  of  the  earth  than  to  believe  that  in 
twenty  years  neglect  and  decay  could  work 
such  preposterous  ravages.  The  great  house 
was  all  but  dismantled.  One  corner  of  the 
roof  had  fallen  in.  The  wide  windows  were 
mere  holes  in  the  wall.  The  gable  of  the 
porch  was  twisted  and  rent — so  much  so  that 
two  of  the  high  pillars  had  toppled  over, 
while  another,  following  the  sinking  floor,  had 
parted  company  with  the  burden  it  was  in- 
tended to  support  and  sustain.  The  cornices, 
with  their  queer  ornamentation,  had  disap- 
peared, and  more  than  one  of  the  chimney- 
tops  had  crumbled,  leaving  a  ragged  pile  of 
bricks  peeping  above  the  edge  of  the  roof. 
The  lawn  and  avenues  leading  to  it  were 
rankly  overgrown  with  weeds.     The  grove  of 


A  BUN   OF  LUCK  73 

magnificent  trees  that  had  been  one  of  the 
features  of  the  Place  had  not  been  spared. 
Some  were  lying  prone  upon  the  ground  and 
others  had  been  cut  into  cord-wood,  while 
those  that  had  been  left  standing  had  been 
trimmed  and  topped  and  shorn  of  their 
beauty. 

Even  the  topography  of  the  Place  had 
changed.  The  bed  of  the  old  highway  lead- 
ing to  the  gate  that  opened  on  the  main 
avenue  had  now  become  a  gully,  and  a  new 
highway  had  been  seized  upon  —  a  highway 
so  little  used  that  it  held  out  small  promise  to 
the  stranger  who  desired  to  reach  the  house. 
The  surroundings  were  so  strange  that  I  was 
undecided  whether  to  follow  the  new  road, 
and  my  horse,  responsive  to  the  indecision  of 
my  hand,  stopped  still.  At  this  an  old  negro 
man,  whom  I  had  noticed  sitting  on  the  trunk 
of  a  fallen  tree  not  far  from  the  house,  rose 
and  came  forward  as  fast  as  his  age  would 
permit  him.  I  knew  him  at  once  as  Uncle 
Primus,  who  had  been  the  head  servant  in  the 
Place  in  Linton  Moreland's  day  —  carriage- 
driver,  horse-trainer,  foreman,  and  general 
factotum.  I  spoke  to  him  as  he  came  for- 
ward, hat  in  hand  and  smiling. 


74  A   RUN   OF  LUCE 

He  bowed  in  quite  the  old  fashion. 
"  Howdy,  suh  !  I  'low'd  you  wuz  tryin'  fer 
ter  fin'  yo'  way  ter  de  house,  suh.  Dat  what 
make  I  come.  De  time  wuz,  suh,  when  my  ole 
Marster  wuz  'live,  en  long  atter  dat,  dat  no- 
body on  top  er  de  groun'  hatter  ax  de  way 
ter  dat  house  up  yander.  But  dey  's  been  a 
mighty  churnin'  up  sence  dem  days,  suh,  en 
in  de  churnin'  de  whey  done  got  de  notion 
dat  it 's  more  wholesomer  dan  de  butter  —  en 
I  speck  it  is,  suh,  ter  dem  what  like  whey." 

He  paused  and  looked  at  me  with  a  shrewd 
twinkle  in  his  eye,  which  quickly  faded  away 
when,  in  responding  to  his  remark,  I  called 
his  name  again.  He  regarded  me  closely,  but 
not  impolitely,  and  then  began  to  scratch  his 
head  in  a  puzzled  way.  I  was  on  the  point 
of  telling  him  who  I  was  when  he  raised  his 
hand,  a  broad  grin  of  pleasure  spreading  over 
his  face. 

"  Wait,  suh  !  des  wait  !  I  ain't  gwine  ter 
be  outdone  dataway.  Ain't  you  de  same  little 
boy  what  show'cl  me  whar  de  buzzud  nes'  wuz 
on  de  two-mile  place,  en'  which  he  use  ter  go 
'possum-huntin'  long  wid  me  ?  "  Assuring 
Uncle  Primus  that  his  identification  was  com- 
plete in    all  particulars,  he  brought  his  two 


A  RUN   OF  LUCK  75 

hands  together  with  a  resounding  clap,  ex- 
claiming, "  Ah-yi  !  Primus  gittin'  ol',  suh, 
but  he  ain't  gwine  ter  be  outdone  when  it 
come  ter  knowin'  dem  what  he  use  ter  know, 
an'  mo'  speshually  when  he  know'd  'em  en- 
durin'  er  de  farmin'  days.  You  er  kind  er 
fleshened  up,  suh,  en  you  look  like  you  er  mo' 
settled  dan  what  you  wuz  in  dem  days.  Kaze 
I  dunner  how  come  you  'scaped  breakin'  yo' 
neck  when  you  wuz  stayin'  at  de  Terrell  plan- 
tation." 

I  was  as  much  pleased  at  Uncle  Primus's 
recognition  after  these  long  and  fateful  years 
as  he  seemed  to  be,  and  we  had  much  to  say 
to  each  other  as  he  piloted  me  along  the  new 
road  to  the  new  gate.  The  house  and  the 
home  place  were  now  owned  by  a  Mr.  Yar- 
brough,  who  had  at  one  time  followed  the  call- 
ing of  an  overseer.  Having  bought  the  house, 
it  was  a  marvel  why  he  allowed  it  to  go  to 
rack,  but  he  did.  Instead  of  repairing  the 
fine  old  house  and  living  in  it,  he  built  a 
modest  dwelling  of  his  own.  There  is  a  psy- 
chological explanation  of  this,  into  which  it 
is  not  necessary  now  to  go.  At  the  time  I 
could  find  small  excuse  for  the  man  who  could 
use  the  Moreland  house  as  a  storage  place  for 


76  A  RUN   OF  LUCK 

corn,  wheat,  potatoes,  and  fodder,  and  that, 
too,  when  there  were  no  locks  on  the  doors, 
and  only  boards  nailed  across  the  lower  win- 
dows. 

But  Mr.  Yarbrough  gave  me  a  good  dinner, 
as  well  as  a  good  part  of  the  information  I 
had  come  in  search  of,  and  it  would  have 
become  me  ill  to  inquire  too  closely  into  his 
motives  for  abandoning  the  Moreland  dwell- 
ing to  the  elements.  After  dinner,  I  walked 
about  the  place  with  Uncle  Primus,  visiting 
first  the  rock-spring,  that  I  remembered  well, 
and  the  old  family  burying-ground  in  the 
orchard.  Here  all  the  marbles  were  old  and 
weather-beaten,  and  I  had  much  trouble  in 
making:  out  some  of  the  names  and  dates.  I 
knew  that  Linton  Moreland  had  returned 
home  after  the  war,  with  some  military  repu- 
tation, which  he  tried  in  vain  to  turn  to  ac- 
count in  business  matters.  Farming  was  such 
a  precarious  affair  directly  after  the  war  that  he 
gave  it  up  in  disgust,  and  moved  to  Savannah, 
where  he  took  charge  of  the  general  agency 
of  an  insurance  company.  Lacking  all  busi- 
ness training,  and  wanting  the  instinct  of 
economy  in  all  things,  great  or  small,  it  was 
no  surprise  to  his  friends  when  he  gave  up 


A  RUN   OF  LUCK  77 

the  insurance  agency  in  disgust,  and  went  off 
to  Mississippi. 

I  had  often  heard  of  old  family  servants 
attaching:  themselves  to  their  masters'  families, 
and  I  wondered  why  Uncle  Primus  had  not 
accompanied  Linton.  The  old  negro  either 
divined  my  thoughts,  or  I  expressed  my  won- 
der in  words  not  now  remembered,  for  he  be- 
gan to  shake  his  head  solemnly,  by  way  of 
protest. 

"  Well,  suh,"  he  said,  after  a  while,  "  I  come 
mighty  nigh  gwine  off  wid  my  young  marster. 
I  'speck  I  'd  'a'  gone  ef  he  'd  'a'  had  any  chil- 
lun,  but  he  ain't  had  a  blessed  one.  En  it 
look  like  ter  me,  suh,  dat  ef  de  Lord  gwine 
ter  stan'  by  a  man,  He  gwine  ter  gi'  'im  chil- 
lun.  But  dat  ain't  all,  suh.  I  done  been 
out  dar  ter  Massy  sip  wid  my  young  marster, 
en  dat  one  time  wuz  too  much  fer  me.  Fust 
dar  wuz  de  rippit  on  de  steamboat,  en  den  dar 
wuz  de  burnin'  er  de  boat,  en  den  come  de 
swamps,  en  de  canebrakes  ;  en  I  tell  you  right 
now,  suh,  I  dunner  which  wuz  de  wuss  —  de 
rippit  on  de  boat,  er  de  tier,  er  de  swamps, 
er  de  canebrakes.  Dat  ain't  no  country  like 
our'n,  suh.  Dey  's  miff  water  in  de  State  er 
Massysip  fer  ter  float  Noah's  ark.     Hit 's  in 


78  A  BUN   OF  LUCK 

de  ve'y  Ian'  what  dey  plant  der  cotton  in,  suli. 
De  groun'  is  mushy.  En  black  !  You  may  n't 
b'lieve  me,  suh,  but  dey  wuz  times  when  I  wuz 
out  dar,  dat  I  'd  'a'  paid  a  sev'mpunce  fer  ter 
git  a  whiff  er  dish  yer  red  dus'  up  my  nose. 
When  you  come  to  farmin',  suh,  gi'  me  de 
red  Ian'  er  de  gray.  Hit  may  not  make  ez 
much  cotton  in  oue  season,  but  it  las's  longer, 
en  hit 's  lots  mo'  wholesome." 

To  pass  the  time  away,  I  asked  Uncle 
Primus  about  the  "  rippit "  on  the  boat,  as 
he  called  it.  He  shook  his  head  and  groaned. 
Finally  he  brightened  up,  and  said  :  — 

"  You  ain't  know  much  about  my  young 
marster,  suh  ;  you  wuz  too  little  ;  but  he  had 
de  fam'ly  failin',  ef  you  kin  call  it  dat.  He 
wuz  up  fer  whatsomever  wuz  gwine  on,  let  it 
be  a  fight,  er  let  it  be  a  frolic.  'T  wuz  all  de 
same  ter  him,  suh  ;  yit,  ef  he  had  de  choosin', 
't  would  'a'  bin  a  fight  mighty  nigh  all  de 
time.  I  dunner  but  what  he  wuz  wtuss  at  dat 
dan  ole  marster  wuz,  en  de  Lord  knows  he 
wuz  bad  'nuff. 

"  Well,  suh,  nothin  'd  do  my  young  marster 
but  he  mus'  travel,  but  stidder  travelin'  up 
dar  in  Boston,  en  Phillimindelphy,  whar  folks 
live  at,  he  tuck  de  notion  dat  he  mus'  go  out 


A  BUN   OF  LUCK  79 

dar  in  de  neighborhoods  er  Massysip.  En  I 
had  ter  go  'long  wid  'im.  I  kinder  hung 
back,  kaze  I  done  hearn  tell  'bout  de  gwines- 
on  dey  had  out  dar  ;  but  de  mo'  I  hung  back, 
de  mo'  my  young  marster  want  me  ter  go. 
I  wuz  lots  younger  den  dan  what  I  is  now,  en 
lots  mo'  soopler,  en  I  'low  ter  myself  dat  ef 
anybody  kin  stan'  fer  ter  go  out  dar  spectin' 
ter  come  back  wid  breff  in  urn,  dat  somebody 
wuz  Primus.  'T  wuz  like  de  ol'  sayin,'  suh  — 
start  out  wid  a  weak  heart  ef  you  want  ter 
come  home  wid  a  whole  hide.  En  so  we  start 
off.  My  young  marster  wuz  mighty  gayly. 
He  cracked  jokes,  en  went  on  mighty  nigh 
de  whole  time ;  en  I  'spicioned  den  dat  dey 
wuz  gwine  ter  be  some  devilment  cut  up  'fo' 
we  got  back.     En  sho  nuff  dey  wuz. 

"  Well,  suh,  stidder  gwine  right  straight 
to'rds  Massysip,  we  tuck  de  stage  en  went  ter 
Nashville,  en  den  ter  Kaintucky,  en  den  fum 
dar  up  ter  St.  Louis.  Hit  look  like  dat  whar- 
somever  dey  wuz  a  hoss-race,  er  a  chicken 
fight,  er  a  game  er  farrer  gwine  on,  right  dar 
we  wuz,  en  dar  we  staid  twel  de  light  wuz  out, 
ez  you  may  say.  En  when  dey  'd  move,  we  'd 
move.  Ef  it  had  n't  'a'  been  fer  me,  suh, 
my  young  marster  would  'a'  teetotally  mint 


80  A  BUN   OF  LUCK 

hisse'f  wid  gamblin'  en  gwine  on.  I  seed  dat 
snmp'n  had  ter  be  done,  en  dat  mighty  quick, 
so  I  tuck  'im  off  one  side  en  ax  'im  ef  he  'd 
bet  on  de  boss  what  I  'd  pick  out  fer  'im  de 
next  day.  Dat  wnz  des  fun  fer  my  young 
marster,  suh.  He  tuck  me  right  up,  en  des 
vowed  he  'd  put  his  las'  dollar  on  'im. 

"  'T  wa'n't  no  mo'  trouble  ter  me,  suh,  ter 
pick  out  de  winnin'  hoss  dan  'twuz  ter  wash 
my  face.  Dat  night  I  made  my  young  mars- 
ter gi'  me  a  tickler  full  er  dram,  en  den  I 
went  'mong  de  stables  whar  dey  kep'  de  race- 
bosses,  en  't  w'an't  no  time  'fo'  I  know'd  eve'y 
boss  dat  wuz  gwine  ter  win  de  nex'  day,  en 
de  day  arter,  en  de  day  arter  dat  —  kaze  de 
nigger  boys,  what  rode  de  hosses,  know'd, 
en  dey  tol'  me  what  dey  would  n't  dast  ter 
tell  no  white  man  dat  ever  wuz  born'd. 

"  Well,  suh,  we  sorter  belt  back  on  de  fust 
two  races,  but  de  nex'  un  wuz  de  big  un,  en 
my  young  marster  plankt  down  all  be  bad 
on  de  hoss  I  picked,  en  we  walked  'way  fum 
dar  wid  mighty  nigh  'nuff  money  ter  fill  a 
bedtick.  De  biggest  pile  my  young  marster 
got,  he  won'd  fum  a  great  big  man,  wid  white 
whiskers  en  blue  eyes.  He  look  mo'  like  a 
preacher  dan  any  boss-race  man  I  ever  is  see. 


A  RUN  OF  LUCK  81 

De  man  wid  de  white  whiskers  en  blue  eyes 
counted  out  de  bills  slow,  en  all  de  time  he 
wuz  doin'  it  he  look  hard  at  me  en  my  young 
marster.  Arter  we  got  back  in  de  tavern, 
my  young  marster  say,  <  Primus  !  '  I  say, 
'  Suh  !  '  He  'low,  '  Is  you  see  how  dat  oP 
man  look  at  us  whence  he  wuz  countin'  out 
dat  money  ?  '  I  'low,  '  Well,  suh,  I  notice 
'im  glance  at  us  mo'  dan  once.'  He  say,  '  You 
know  what  dat  means  ?  '  I  say,  '  No,  suh, 
less'n  hit's  kaze  he  hate  ter  drap  so  much 
good  money.'  He  'low,  '  Dat  man  got  de  idee 
in  'im  big  ez  a  mule  dat  I  'm  a  swindler. 
Damn  'im  !  I  '11  put  a  hole  thoo  'im  de  fust 
chance  I  git.'  I  'Jow,  '  Better  wait  twel  we 
git  some  mo'  er  his  money.'  But  my  young 
marster  tuck  it  mighty  hard.  He  walk  de 
flo'  en  walk  de  flo'.  But  ez  fer  me  —  well, 
suh,  I  des  set  down  at  de  foot  er  de  bed,  en 
de  fus  news  I  know'd  I  wuz  done  gone  ter 
de  land  er  Nod. 

"  Well,  suh,  we  went  on  cross  de  country 
twel  we  come  ter  St.  Louis.  We  ain't  do 
much  dar,  'cept  ter  spen'  money,  en  bimeby 
my  young  marster  tuck  a  notion  dat  he  'd 
go  ter  New  'leans.  I  'low,  '  Dar  now  ! '  but 
dat  ain't  do  no  good.     My  young  marster 


82  A  BUN   OF  LUCK 

done  make  up  his  min'.  So  I  got  ev'rything 
ready,  en  terreckly  atter  dinner  we  went 
down  en  got  on  de  boat.  Hit  look  like  ter 
me,  suh,  dat  she  wuz  bigger  dan  a  meetin'- 
house.  Mon,  she  loomed  up  so  high,  dat  I 
got  sorter  skittish,  en  den  on  top  er  dat  wuz 
two  great  big  smoke-stacks,  scolloped  on  de 
aidge,  en  painted  red  roun'  de  rim.  En  de 
smoke  dat  come  a-bilin'  out'n  um  wuz  dat 
black  en  thick  dat  it  look  like  you  might  er 
cut  it  wid  a  kyarvin'  knife. 

"  I  followed  'long  atter  my  young  marster, 
I  did,  en  when  we  got  up  on  top  dar  whar  de 
balance  er  de  folks  wuz,  de  fust  man  I  laid 
eyes  on  wuz  dat  ar  man  wid  de  white  whiskers 
en  de  blue  eyes  what  my  young  marster  won 
de  big  pile  er  money  fum.  He  look  mo'  like 
a  preacher  man  dan  ever,  kaze  he  wuz  drest 
up  mo'  slicker  dan  what  he  had  been.  I 
ain't  blame  'im  fer  dat  when  I  seed  what 
he  had  wid  'im.  I  done  laid  eyes  on  lots  er 
purty  white  ladies,  but  I  ain't  seed  none  no 
purtier  dan  de  one  what  dat  ar  preacher- 
lookin'  man  had  wid  'im.  She  walk,  suh, 
like  she  wuz  on  springs,  en  when  she  laugh 
it  look  like  she  lit  up  de  boat,  en  her  ha'r 
shine  like  when  de  sun  strike  down  thoo  de 


A  RUN   OF  LUCE  83 

trees  whar  de  water  ripple  at.  When  de  man 
'ud  look  at  her,  hit  seem  like  his  eyes  got 
mo'  bluer,  but  dey  wa'n't  no  mo'  bluer  dan 
what  her  'n  wuz  en  not  more  'n  half  ez  big. 
I  know'd  by  de  way  she  hung  on  de  man's 
arm  en  projicked  wid  'im,  dat  dey  wuz  some 
kin  er  nudder,  en  I  say  ter  myse'f,  '  Name 
er  de  Lord,  white  man,  why  n't  you  drap  dis 
gamblin'  business  en  settle  down  some'ers  en 
take  keer  er  dat  gal  ? '  Bless  yo'  soul,  suh, 
whiles  I  wuz  sayin'  dat  de  gal  wuz  pullin'  at 
de  man's  whiskers  ;  en  bimeby,  she  up  en  — 
smack  !  —  she  kissed  'im,  en  den  I  know'd 
he  wuz  her  daddy. 

"  My  young  marster  wuz  watchin'  all  deze 
motions  mo'  samer  dan  what  I  wuz.  He 
watch  de  gal  so  close  dat  bimeby  de  man 
kotch  'im  at  it,  en  when  my  young  marster 
seed  he  wuz  kotched  he  up  en  blush  wuss  'n 
de  gal  did.  But  de  preacher-lookin'  man 
ain't  say  nothin'.  He  look  at  my  young 
marster  an  grin  des  nuff  fer  ter  show  his 
tushes.  'T  wa'n't  no  laugh  ;  't  wuz  one  er 
deze  yer  grins  like  you  see  on  er  dog  des 
'fo'  he  start  ter  snap  you.  Den  he  hustled 
de  gal  off,  en  I  dunner  whar  dey  went. 

"  Arter  supper  some  er  de  men  what  my 


84  A   RUN  OF  LUCK 

young1  marster  been  talkin'  wid  said  sump'n 
'bout  gittin'  up  a  little  game.  Dey  talked 
en  smoked,  en  bimeby  my  young  marster  en 
two  mo'  'greed  ter  try -  dey  han'  at  poker. 
Dey  went  off  to'rds  a  little  room  what  dey 
had  at  one  een'  er  de  boat,  en  I  went  'long 
wid  um.  My  fust  notion  wuz  ter  go  off 
some'ers  en  go  ter  bed,  but  when  I  got  ter 
whar  dey  wuz  gwine,  dar  wuz  de  preacher- 
lookin'  man  settin'  in  dar  by  his  lone  se'f 
shufflin'  a  deck  er  kyards.  He  look  up,  he 
did,  when  my  young  marster  en  de  yuthers 
went  in,  en  den  he  showed  his  tushes  en 
bowed.  But  he  kep'  on  settin'  dar  shufflin' 
de  kyards,  en  it  look  like  ter  me  dat  he  done 
been  shuffle  kyards  befo'.  I  been  see  lots  er 
men  shuffle  kyards  in  my  day,  but  dat  ar 
preacher-lookin'  man,  he  beat  my  time  by  de 
way  he  handle  dat  deck.  'T  wuz  slicker  dan 
sin. 

"  Right  den  en  dar,  suh,  I  say  ter  myse'f 
dat  dish  yer  preacher-lookin'  man  wuz  one  er 
dem  ar  river-gamblers,  what  you  hear  folks 
talk  'bout,  en  dat  he  wa'n't  doin'  nothin'  in 
de  roun'  worl'  but  layin'  fer  my  young  mars- 
ter. Dey  sorter  pass  de  time  er  day,  dey 
did,  en  my  young  marster  'low  dat  he  hope 


A  RUN   OF  LUCK  85 

he  ain't  doin'  no  intrusion,  en  de  preacher- 
lookin'  man  say  ef  dey  's  anybody  doin'  any 
intrusion,  it 's  him,  kaze  he  ain't  doin'  nbthin' 
but  settin'  dar  projickin'  with  de  kyards 
waitin'  fer  bed-time.  Den  my  young  mars- 
•  ter  ax  'im  ef  he  won't  jine  in  de  game,  en 
he  'low  he  don't  keer  ef  he  do,  but  he  say  it 
twon't  do  no  good  fer  ter  jine  in  de  game 
ef  my  young  marster  know  ez  much  'bout 
kyards  ez  he  do  'bout  race-hosses.  Wid 
dat,  my  young  marster  'low  dat  he  never 
won'd  a  dollar  on  any  boss  what  he  pick 
out  hisse'f.  Dis  make  de  preacher-lookin' 
man  open  his  eyes  wide,  en  dey  look  mo' 
bluer  dan  befo' ;  en  he  'low  :  — 

"'Who  does  de  pickin'  fer  you?' 

"  My  young  marster  nod  his  head  to'rds 
me.     '  Dar  's  my  picker.' 

"  De  man  say,  '  Who  larnt  you  so  much 
'bout  race-hosses  ?  ' 

"  I  make  answer,  i  Well,  suh,  hit 's  mighty 
much  de  same  wid  hosses  ez  't  is  wid  folks. 
Look  at  am  right  close  en  watch  der  motions, 
en  you  '11  know  what  dey  got  in  um,  but  you 
won't  know  how  you  know  it.' 

"  De  man  say,  '  Kin  you  pick  out  kyards 
same  ez  you  does  hosses  ?  ' 


86  A  EUN  OF  LUCK 

"  I  'low,  '  Well,  suh,  I  has  played  sev'm-up 
on  Sundays,  en  I  ken  pick  out  de  kyards 
when  I  see  urn.' 

"  Dis  make  de  man  grin  mo'  samer  dan 
befo',  but  my  young  marster  looks  mighty 
solium.  He  drum  on  de  table  wid  his  fingers 
like  he  studyin'  'bout  sump'n,  en  bimeby  he 

say  :  —  _ 

a  i  primus?  I  wus  (Jes  'bout  ter  sen'  you  off 

ter  bed,  but  I  reckon  you  better  set  dar  be- 

hine  me  en  gi'  me  good  luck.' 

"  De  man  look  at  me,  en  den  he  look  at  my 
young  marster.     I  'low :  — 

"  '  I  '11  set  behime  you  en  nod,  Marse  Lint, 
ef  dat  '11  gi'  you  good  luck.' 

"  Well,  suh,  dey  started  in  wid  de  game. 
Dey  had  corn  fer  chips,  en  er  empty  seegyar 
box  wuz  de  bank.  I  watched  urn  long  ez  I 
could,  en  den  I  drapt  off  ter  sleep.  I  dunner 
how  long  I  sot  dar  en  nodded,  but  bimeby  I 
hear  a  shufflin',  en  dat  woke  me.  De  two 
men  what  come  in  wid  my  young  marster  had 
done  got  tired  er  playin',  en  dey  draw'd  out 
en  went  off  ter  bed.  My  young  marster  wuz 
fer  drawin'  out  too,  but  de  preacher-lookin' 
man  wouldn't  hear  ter  dat.  He  say,  '  Gi' 
me  er  chance  ter  win  my  money  back,'  en  I 


A  RUN   OF  LUCE  87 

know'd  by  dat  dat  niy  young  mafster  ain't 
been  losin'  much. 

"  Dey  played  on,  en  I  kinder  kep'  one  eye 
on  de  game.  My  young  marster  played  des 
like  he  tryin'  ter  lose.  But  't  wa'n't  no  use. 
Luck  wuz  runnin'  his  way,  en  she  des  run'd 
all  over  him.  She  got  'im  down  en  wal- 
lered  'im,  en  den  she  sot  on  top  un  'im. 
Dey  ain't  no  use  talkin',  suh :  hit  wuz  des 
scanlous.  Dey  wa'n't  no  sleep  fer  me  while 
dat  wuz  gwine  on.  I  des  sot  dar  wid  bofe 
eyes  open,  en  my  mouf  too,  I  speck.  De 
kyards  runded  so  quare,  suh,  dat  dey  fair 
made  my  flesh  crawl,  kaze  I  know'd  how  it 
bleedze  ter  look  like  swindlin'  ter  de  man 
what  wuz  so  busy  losin'  all  his  money.  Ef  I 
had  n't  er  know'd  my  young  marster,  nobody 
could  n't  er  tol'  me  dat  he  wa'n't  play  in'  a 
skin  game,  kaze  I  would  n't  b'lieved  um.  En 
dat 's  de  way  't  wuz  wid  dat  ar  preacker- 
lookin'  man.  He  played  en  played,  but 
bimeby  he  put  his  kyards  down  on  de  table, 
en  draw'd  a  long  breff,  en  look  at  my  young 
marster.     Den  he  'low  :  — 

"  '  I  seed  lots  er  folks  in  my  day  en  time, 
but  you  en  your  dam  nigger  is  de  slickest 
pair  dat  I  ever  is  lay  eyes  on.' 


88  A    RUN   OF  LUCK 

"  My  young  marster  sorter  half-way  shet 
his  eyes  en  lean  on  de  table  en  look  at  de 
man.     He  ax  :  — 

"  '  What  yo'  name  ?  ' 

"  Man  say,  '  Barksdale  er  Loueeziana.' 

"  My  young  marster  had  his  han'  on  a 
tum'ler  er  water,  en  he  'low,  '  Well,  Barks- 
dale  er  Loueeziana,  ol'  ez  you  is,  I  '11  hatter 
l'arn  you  some  manners.' 

"  Wid  dat,  he  dash  de  water  in  de  man's 
face  wid  one  han'  en  draw'd  his  gun  wid  de 
yuther.  De  man  wipe  de  water  out  er  his 
eyes  wid  one  han'  en  draw'd  his  gun  wid  de 
yuther.  Leas' ways,  I  speck  he  draw'd  it, 
kaze  de  pistol  what  my  young  marster  had 
wuz  so  techous,  ez  you  may  say,  dat  I  duckt 
my  head  when  I  seed  'im  put  his  ban'  on  it. 

"  But  'fo'  anybody  could  do  any  damage, 
suh,  I  heerd  a  squall  dat  make  my  blood  run 
col'.  Hit  come  fum  a  'oman,  too,  kaze  dey 
ain't  nothin'  ner  nobody  what  kin  make  dat 
kinder  fuss  'cep'  it 's  a  'oman  er  a  mad  hoss. 
I  raise  my  head  at  dat,  en  dar  stood  my 
young  marster  en  de  man  wid  der  ban's  on 
der  guns  en  de  table  'twix'  um.  De  squall 
ain't  mo'  dan  die  away,  'fo'  somebody  holler 
*  Fler  !  '  en  time  dat  word  come,  I  could  see 


A  BUN  OF  LUCK  89 

de  red  skadder  flashin'  on  de  water,  en  den 
hit  come  'cross  my  min'  dat  dey  wuz  one  nig- 
ger man  a  mighty  fur  ways  from  home,  en  hit 
make  me  feel  so  sorry  fer  de  nigger  man  dat 
I  could  n't  skacely  keep  f  um  bustin'  out  en 
cryin'  boo-hoo  right  den  en  dar.  De  man 
look  at  my  young  marster  en  say :  — 

"  '  'Scuze  me  des  one  minnit.  My  daugh- 
ter'— 

"  '  Certn'y,  suh  ! '  sez  my  young  marster, 
en  den  he  bowed  des  ez  perlite  ez  ef  he  'd  a 
had  a  fiddle  stidder  a  pistol.  De  man,  he 
bowed  back,  en  went  out,  en  my  young  mars- 
ter follered  arter.  By  dat  time  de  folks  in 
de  boat  (en  dey  wuz  a  pile  un  um,  mon  !) 
come  a-rushin'  out'n  der  rooms,  en  'fo'  you 
kin  wink  yo'  eyeball  dey  wuz  a-crowdin'  en 
a-pushin'  en  a-pullin'  en  a-haulin',  en  a-cryin' 
en  a-fightin',  en  a-cussin'    en  a-prayin'. 

"  Well,  suh,  I  put  it  down  in  my  min'  den, 
en  I  ain't  never  rub  it  out,  dat  ef  you  take 
proudness  out'n  de  white  folks  dey  er  des  ez 
skeery  ez  de  niggers.  En  dem  white  folks 
on  dat  boat  dat  night  had  all  de  proudness 
out'n  um,  en  dey  went  on  wuss  'n  a  passel  er 
four-footed  creeturs.  Hit 's  de  Lord's  trufe, 
suh,  — all  'cep'n    my  young   marster   en    de 


90  A  RUN   OF  LUCK 

preacher-lookin'  man.  Deui  two  wuz  des  ez 
cool  ez  cowcumbers,  en  I  say  ter  myse'f ,  I  did, 
*  I  '11  des  up  en  wait  twel  dey  gits  skeer'd,  en 
den  I  '11  show  um  how  skeer'd  a  nigger  kin 
git  when  he  ain't  got  nothin'  on  his  min'.' 

"  Dat  ar  Mr.  Barksdale,  he  wuz  fur  shovin' 
right  'long  froo  de  crowd,  but  my  young 
marster  say  dey  better  stay  on  de  top  deck 
whar  dey  kin  see  what  gwine  on.  'Bout  dat 
time  I  cotch  sight  er  de  young  'oman  in  de 
jam  right  close  at  us,  en  I  p'int  her  out  ter 
my  young  marster.  Time  he  kin  say,  '  Dar 
yo'  daughter  right  nex'  ter  de  railin','  de 
crowd  sorter  swayed  back,  de  rope  railin'  give 
'way,  en  inter  de  water  de  gal  went,  wid  a  lot 
mo'  un  um.  My  young  marster  han'  me  his 
coat  en  pistol  en  over  he  went ;  I  han'  um 
ter  Mr.  Barksdale,  whiles  he  sayin',  '  Oh, 
Lord  !  oh,  Lordy  !  '  en  over  I  went,  —  kaze 
in  dem  days  I  ain't  had  no  better  sense  dan 
ter  go  whar  my  young  marster  went.  I  hit 
somebody  when  I  struck  de  water,  en  I  like 
ter  jolted  my  gizzard  out,  en  when  I  riz  hit 
look  like  de  boat  had  done  got  a  mile  away, 
but  she  wuz  headin'  fer  de  bank,  suh,  en  she 
flung  a  broadside  er  light  on  de  water,  en  I 
ain't  hit  mo'n  a  dozen   licks  'fo'  I  seed  my 


A   RUN   OF  LUCE  91 

young  marster  hoi' in'  cle  gal,  an'  swimmin' 
'long  easy. 

"  Well,  suh,  what  should  I  do  but  des  up 
en  fetch  one  er  dem  ar  ol'-time  fox-huntin' 
hollers,  en  I  boun'  you  mought  er  heerd  it 
two  mile.  My  young  marster  make  answer, 
en  den  I  know'd  de  res'  wuz  easy.  Kaze  me 
an'  him  wuz  at  home  in  de  water.  I  holler 
out,  I  did,  '  Gi'  me  room,  Marse  Lint !  '  en  I 
pulled  up  'long  side  er  him  same  ez  a  pacin' 
hoss.  My  young  marster  say  simip'n,  I  dis- 
remember  what,  en  den  he  laugh,  en  when 
de  young  'oman  hear  dis,  she  open  her  eyes, 
en  make  some  kind  er  movement.  My  young 
marster  'low,  '  Don't  grab  me,  please,  ma'am/ 
en  she  say  she  ain't  skeer'd  a  bit.  'Bout  dat 
time  we  come  up  wid  a  nigger  man  in  a 
canoe.  Stidder  tryin'  ter  save  us,  ef  we 
needed  any  savin',  he  done  his  level  best  ter 
git  away.  But  he  ain't  hit  two  licks  wid  de 
paddle  'fo'  I  had  de  boat,  en  I  say,  '  You 
dunner  who  you  foolin'  wid,  nigger  ! ' 

"  Well,  suh,  he  dez  riz  up  in  de  boat  en 
light  out  same  ez  a  bull-frog  in  a  mill-pon'. 
My  young  marster  say  he  wuz  a  runaway 
nigger,  en  I  speck  he  wuz,  kaze  what  business 
he  got  jumpin'  in  de  water  des  kaze  we  want 


92  A  RUN   OF  LUCK 

ter  git  in  his  boat  ?  Dat  zackly  what  he 
done ;  he  lipt  out  same  ez  er  bull-frog.  Now, 
some  folks  dunner  how  ter  git  in  a  boat  f urn 
de  water  when  dey  ain't  nobody  in  it,  but 
here's  what  does.  De  sides  is  lots  too  tick- 
lish. I  dez  grab  de  een'  en  sorter  spring  up 
en  down  twel  I  got  de  swing  un  it,  en  den  I 
straddle  it  des  like  playin'  lip-frog.  Dat 
done,  dey  wa'n't  no  trouble  't  all.  I  lif  de 
young  'oman  in,  en  den  my  young  marster  he 
clomb  in,  en  dar  we  wuz  a  little  chilly  in  de 
win',  but  warm  'nuff  fer  ter  thank  de  Lord 
we  had  life  in  us.  I  tuck  de  paddle,  I  did, 
en  look  at  my  young  marster.  He  nod  his 
head  to'rd  de  burnin'  boat.  De  young  'oman 
wuz  cryin'  en  moanin',  en  gwine  on  tumble 
'bout  her  daddy,  but  I  des  jerk  dat  canoe 
along.  Her  daddy  wuz  dead,  she  des  know'd 
it ;  sump'n  done  tol'  her  so  ;  en  nobody  ner 
nothin'  can't  make  her  b'lieve  he  'live,  no 
matter  ef  day  done  seed  'im  'live  en  well. 
You  know  how  de  wimmin  folk  runs  on,  suh. 
But  while  she  gwine  on  dat  a-way,  I  wuz  des 
makin'  dat  canoe  zoon,  pullin'  fust  on  one 
side  en  den  on  t'er. 

"  By  dis  time,  suh,  de  burnin'  boat  done 
been  run  on  de  bank,  en,  mon,  she  lit  up  de 


A  RUN   OF  LUCE  93 

worl'.     De  fier  wuz   shootin'  mos'ly  fum  de 

middle,  en  mos'  all  de  folks  wuz  at  de  een' 

nex'  ter  de  bank,  but  on  de  hine  een'  en  way 

on  de  top  deck  dey  wuz  a  man  standin'.     He 

wuz  wringin'  bis  ban's  en  lookin'  out  on  de 

water,  en  be  wa'n't  no  mo'  tryin!  ter  save  bis- 

se'f    dan    de    smoke-stacks    wuz.       De    liffht 

sbined  right .  on  'im,  en  I  know'd  de  minnit 

I  seed  'im  dat  't  wus  dat  ar  Mr.  Barksdale. 

So    I    turn    my  head   en   say  ter  de   young 

'oman,  '  Mistiss,  yon'  yo'  pa  now.'     She  ain't 

look  up  't  all.     She  'low,  '  I  don't  b'lieve  it ! 

I  never  is  ter  b'lieve  it  ! '    I  say,  '  Marse  Lint, 

who  dat  ar  gemman  on  de  top  deck  all  by  his 

own   'lone  se'f  ?  '     My  young  marster  'low, 

'  Hit 's    Mr.    Barksdale.'      De    young    'oman 

moan  en  cry  out,  '  Oh,  it  can't  be  ! ' 

"But  I  des  drove  dat  ar  canoe  'long,  en 
bimeby  we  wuz  right  at  de  hine  een',  en  my 
young  marster  sot  in  ter  holler  at  dat  ar  Mr. 
Barksdale.  But  look  like  he  can't  make  'm 
hear,  de  folks  on  de  een'  wuz  makin'  sech  a 
racket,  en  de  fier  wuz  ro'in  so.  I  say,  '  Wait, 
Marse  Lint,'  en  den  I  back  de  canoe  out  in 
de  light,  en  fetched  one  er  dem  ol'-thne  corn- 
shuckin'  whoops.  Dis  make  de  man  look 
down.  I  holler,  'Here  yo'  daughter  waitin' 
for  you  !     Climb  down  —  climb  down  ! ' 


94  A  RUN  OF  LUCK 

"  Well,  suh,  he  sorter  rub  his  han'  'cross 
his  eyes,  en  den  de  young  'oman  fetched  a 
squall  en  called  'im  by  name.  Wid  dat,  he 
stoop  down  en  pick  up  my  young  marster's 
coat  en  den  he  clomb  down  des  ez  cool  ez  a 
cowcumber.  'T  wa  n't  long  atter  dat  'fo'  we 
made  a  landin'.  You  may  n't  b'lieve  it,  suh, 
but  folks  in  gettin'  off  dat  burnin'  boat,  what 
wid  der  crowdin'  en  der  pushin',  would  drown 
deyse'f  in  water  dat  wa  n't  up  ter  der  chin  ef 
dey  'd  a  stood  up.  It 's  de  Lord's  trufe. 
Not  one  here  en  dar,  suh,  but  a  whole  drove 
un  um. 

"  De  folks  in  de  neighborhood  seed  de  light 
en  know'd  purty  much  what  de  matter  wuz,  en 
't  wa'n't  long  'f o'  here  dey  come  wid  der  bug- 
gies, en  der  carryalls,  en  der  waggins,  en  by 
sunup  me  an'  my  young  marster^  en  de  young 
'oman  en  her  daddy,  wuz  all  doin'  mighty 
well  at  a  house  not  mo'n  two  mile  fum  de 
river.  Leas' ways,  I  know  I  wuz  doin'  mighty 
well,  suh,  kaze  I  wuz  driukin'  hot  coffee  en 
eatin'  hot  biscuits  in  de  kitchen,  en  I  speck 
de  yuthers  wuz  doin'  de  same  in  de  house. 
En  what  better  kin  you  ax  dan  dat  ? 

"  Atter  dinner,  whiles  I  wuz  settin'  out  on 
de  hoss-block  sunnin'  myse'f  —  kaze  de  sun 


A  RUN  OF  LUCK  95 

feel  mighty  good,  suh,  when  you  done  got 
yo'  fill  er  vittles  —  I  wuz  settin'  dar,  I  wuz, 
kinder  huv'rin'  'twix'  sleep  en  slumber,  when 
I  hear  my  young  marster  talkin'.  I  open 
my  eyes,  en  dar  wuz  him  en  Mr.  Barksdale 
comin'  down  fum  de  house.  Dey  stop  not  so 
mighty  fur  fum  whar  I  wuz,  en  talk  mighty 
solium.  Bimeby  Mr.  Barksdale  beckon  to  me. 
He 'low  — 

" '  Come  yer,  boy.  You  wuz  de  onliest 
one  what  hear  what  I  say  ter  yo'  young 
marster  las'  night,  en  I  want  you  ter  hear 
what  I  say  now,  en  dat  's  dis  :  I  'm  ready  ter 
git  on  my  knees,  en  'polergize  on  account  er 
de  insults  what  passed.' 

"  I  say :  '  Yasser,  I  know'd  sump'n  n'er 
had  ter  be  done  'bout  dat,  kaze  my  white 
folks  ain't  got  no  stomach  fer  dat  kind  er 
talk,  let  it  come  fum  who  it  shill  en  whence 
it  mousrht.' 

"  He  look  at  me  right  hard,  en  den  he 
laugh,  en  'low:  '  Shake  ban's  wid  me.  Nig- 
ger ez  you  is,  you  er  better  dan  one  half  de 
white  folks  dat  I'm  'quainted  wid.' 

"  Well,  suh,  you  wuz  'roun'  here  when  my 
young  marster  come  back  wid  my  young 
mistiss?      Dat   wuz   de   upshot  un   it.       We 


96  A  RUN   OF  LUCK 

went  home  wid  Marse  Barksdale,  en  when  we 
come  'way  fum  dar,  Marse  Lint  brung  wid 
'im  de  gal  what  he  pick  up  in  de  river. 

"  Dey  ain't  but  one  thing  'bout  my  young 
marster  dat  I  can't  onkivver  en  onravel. 
What  in  de  name  er  goodness  de  reason  dat 
he  can't  stay  right  here  whar  he  born'd  at, 
stidder  gwine  out  dar  in  Massysip  er  Loueez- 
iany,  er  wharsomever  hit  is  ?  Dat  what  I 
want  ter  know." 

When  I  last  saw  him,  Uncle  Primus  was 
sitting  on  a  log,  evidently  still  trying  to  solve 
that  problem. 


THE  LATE  MR.  WATKINS  OF  GEORGIA 

HIS  RELATION  TO   ORIENTAL   FOLK-LORE 

Owing  to  the  fact  that  I  have  compiled 
and  published  from  time  to  time  such  stories 
of  the  Southern  plantations  as  chanced  to  fall 
in  my  way,  an  opinion  has  gone  abroad  that 
if  I  am  not  a  genuine  professor  of  the  science 
of  folk-lore  I  at  least  know  all  about  the 
comparative  branch  of  the  subject.  There  is 
no  mystery  as  to  how  this  impression  got 
abroad.  I  beat  my  forehead  in  the  dust  at 
the  reader's  feet  and  make  a  full  confession. 
It  is  all  owing  to  the  wonderfully  learned  in- 
troduction to  the  volume  of  plantation  stories 
called  "  Nights  with  Uncle  Remus."  There 
is  nothing  egotistical  in  my  characterization 
of  that  introduction.  I  speak  as  a  spectator, 
—  an  outsider,  as  it  were.  I  am  not  a  bit 
proud  of  it,  but  I  marvel  at  it.  Where  did  I 
get  hold  of  all  the  information  that  seems  to 
be  packed  in  those  unobtrusive  pages,  and 
how  did  I  have  the  patience  to  string  it  out 


98      THE  LATE  MR.    W ATKINS   OF  GEORGIA 

and  make  it  fit  so  the  joints  would  n't  show  ? 
It  is  the  habit  of  man,  the  world  over,  to 
stand  in  awe,  secret  or  avowed,  of  that  which 
he  does  not  understand.  When  I  say,  there- 
fore, that  the  introduction  is  wonderfully 
learned,  I  mean  that  I  do  not  understand  it. 

To  that  introduction  I  owe  my  reputation 
abroad  (very  much  abroad)  as  a  student  or  a 
professor  of  folk-lore.  To  that  introduction 
also  the  reader  owes  the  curious  narrative  (or 
narratives)  which  I  have  concluded  to  put  on 
record  here,  in  order  (if  I  may  be  so  fortu- 
nate) to  put  an  end  to  a  bitter  dispute  that 
has  raged  and  is  still  rasrinp;  in  the  various 
folk-lore  societies  in  Europe  and  Asia,  from 
Jahore  to  London,  —  a  dispute  that  is  not 
the  less  bitter  or  demoralizing'  because  it  is 
carried  on  in  seven  different  languages  and 
thirteen  different  dialects. 

The  way  of  it  was  this.  On  the  16th  of 
February,  1892,  —  the  date  is  in  my  note- 
book, though  it  is  not  of  the  slightest  impor- 
tance, —  I  received  a  communication  from 
Sir  Waddy  Wyndham,  one  of  her  Majesty's 
officials  at  Jahore.  Sir  Waddy  evidently  had 
plenty  of  time  at  his  command,  for  his  letter 
contained  fourteen  sheets  of  note-paper,  con- 


THE  LATE  MR.    W ATKINS   OF  GEORGIA      99 

taining  by  actual  count  two  hundred  and 
eleven  words  to  the  page.  The  envelope  to 
the  letter  had  a  weather-beaten  appearance. 
It  was  literally  covered  with  post-marks,  save 
the  address  and  one  little  spot  in  a  corner, 
where  some  one,  evidently  a  postal-clerk  in 
Georgia,  had  written,  "  All  for  Joe  !  "  Sir 
Waddy's  cramped  handwriting  was  trying, 
but  I  managed  to  make  out  that  he  had  read 
with  great  pleasure  the  learned  introduction 
to  the  plantation  stories,  and  was  proud  to 
know  that  he  and  his  coadjutors  in  India  and 
other  parts  of  the  world  had  so  worthy  a  co- 
worker in  the  fertile  fields  of  South  America. 
Without  further  introduction  he  would  take 
the  liberty  of  sending  me  a  story  which  he 
regarded  as  the  key  to  the  folk-lore  of  India. 
"  If  you  can  find  even  a  trace  of  this  story 
on  the  South  American  plantations,"  he 
wrote,  "you  will  solve  a  riddle  that  has 
been  puzzling  us  for  years,  and  give  the  sci- 
ence of  folk-lore  a  new  claim  to  the  consider- 
ation of  the  thoughtful."  The  story  that 
Sir  Waddy  sent  is  interesting  enough  to  nar- 
rate here.  I  have  taken  the  liberty  to  tell  it 
in  my  own  way,  —  which  is  decidedly  not  the 
way  of  a  professional  folk-lorist. 


100      THE  LATE  MR.    W ATKINS   OF  GEORGIA 
THE    SYMPATHETIC    VINE 

At  a  certain  place,  which  is  marked  by  a 
river,  a  furrow,  a  hedge,  and  a  range  of  hills, 
there  dwelt  a  prince  who  made  his  people 
very  unhappy.  A  Brahmin,  going  into  the 
forest  to  do  penance,  had  told  the  prince 
that  there  was  a  great  supply  of  gold  in  his 
dominions. 

"  How  shall  I  get  it  ?  "  the  prince  inquired. 

u  Dig  for  it,"  said  the  Brahmin. 

"  Where  shall  I  dig  ?  "  asked  the  prince. 

"  In  the  space  of  land,"  replied  the  Brah- 
min, "  that  is  marked  off  by  a  river,  a  furrow, 
a  hedge,  and  a  range  of  hills." 

The  Brahmin,  after  receiving  the  kindest 
treatment,  took  his  leave  and  went  forward 
into  the  forest.  The  prince  immediately  sum- 
moned his  subjects  and  told  them  that,  as 
there  was  to  be  a  great  scarcity  of  food  the 
next  year,  the  best  thing  they  could  do  would 
be  to  become  farmers. 

"  You  have  little  land,"  said  the  prince, 
"  but  I  have  plenty.  Go  yonder  where  the 
land  is  marked  off  by  a  river,  a  furrow,  a 
hedge,  and  a  range  of  hills.  Dig  there,  and 
make  the  ground  arable.     The  mists  will  rise 


THE  LATE  ME.    WATEINS   OF  GEORGIA      101 

from  the  river  and  help  you,  and  the  dew  will 
fall  from  the  hills  and  make  the  soil  sweet." 

So  they  went,  some  gladly,  but  others  with 
a  bad  grace. 

"  How  shall  we  begin  ? "  asked  one  old 
man. 

"  Dig,"  said  the  prince. 

"  When  we  have  dug,  what  then  ?  "  asked 
a  young  man. 

"  Continue  to  dig,"  replied  the  prince. 

Now,  the  prince,  being  afraid  that  the  peo- 
ple would  find  the  gold  and  hide  it,  took  his 
stand  by  a  tree  on  the  range  of  hills  and 
watched  them,  and  at  night  when  they  could 
no  longer  work  he  caused  the  laborers  to 
pass  near  him,  in  single  file,  so  that  he  might 
question  them.  To  each  he  said,  "  What 
have  you  found  ?  "  and  the  reply  was,  "  No- 
thing; but  the  trouble  of  digging;." 

This  happened  day  after  day,  and  the 
workers  got  no  rest  except  the  little  they 
found  at  night.  The  young  men  asked 
when  it  could  end,  and  the  old  men  shook 
their  heads.  Life  is  a  little  span,  but  greed 
runs  from  generation  to  generation.  So  the 
people  dug  and  dug  from  day  to  day,  and 
the  prince  sat  by  the  tree  and  watched  them. 


102      THE  LATE  MR.    WATEINS   OF  GEORGIA 

At  last,  one  day,  an  old  man,  while  dig- 
ging wearily,  turned  up  a  lump  of  gold.  It 
was  dingy  and  dirty,  but  he  knew  it  was  gold 
because  it  was  hard  and  very  heavy.  After 
this,  it  seemed  that  the  field  was  full  of  gold, 
and  when  night  had  come,  each  took  a  lump, 
intending  to  give  it  to  the  prince  who  was 
watching  by  the  tree.  So  they  came  to  him, 
and  an  old  man  said,  "Your  high  mightiness, 
we  have  found  something." 

But  the  prince  answered  not  a  word.  He 
sat  there  still  and  cold.  A  quick-growing 
vine  had  wrapped  around  his  body,  crushing 
his  bones  and  strangling  him.  The  Brahmin, 
coming  out  of  the  forest,  saw  the  people 
gathered  together.  He  went  to  them  and 
said,  "  What  you  have  found  is  yours ;  what 
your  master  has  found  is  his." 

So  they  went  to  their  homes,  leaving  the 
prince  dead  and  covered  with  ants. 

I  need  not  quote  Sir  Waddy  Wyndham's 
letter,  nor  recite  the  history  of  this  legend 
as  he  had  traced  it  through  the  several  In- 
dian dialects.  It  struck  me  as  being  very 
tame  at  best,  lacking  both  the  humor  and  the 
picturesque  verity  (if  I  may  say  so)  of  planta- 
tion stories  with  which  I  am  familiar. 


THE  LATE  ME.    WATEINS   OF  GEORGIA      103 

For  a  time  Sir  Waddy's  letter  and  the 
story,  and  all  his  remarks  about  Bidpai  and 
other  fabulists  passed  out  of  my  mind.  But 
one  day,  a  few  months  ago,  while  adjusting 
the  fixtures  of  the  pump  near  the  kitchen 
door,  I  overheard  a  conversation  between  my 
cook,  Mrs.  Edie  Strickland,  and  Mrs.  Caro- 
line Biggers,  a  colored  lady  who  cooks  for  a 
neighbor,  and  this  conversation  reminded  me 
of  Sir  Waddy  Wyndham's  Indian  story.  I 
concluded  at  once  that  I  had  found  it  here, 
somewhat  disfigured,  it  is  true,  but  still  able 
to  speak  for  itself.  Without  loss  of  time,  I 
reduced  the  story  I  had  heard  in  the  kitchen 
to  writing,  and  sent  a  brief  outline  of  it  to 
Sir  Waddy.  Perhaps  this  was  a  mistake,  and 
yet  my  intentions  were  of  the  best.  I  regret 
now  that  I  violated  a  rule  made  several  years 
ago,  not  to  reply  to  letters  from  strangers. 
No  doubt  Sir  Waddy  regrets  it  too,  but  it  is 
only  fair  to  say  that  no  word  of  complaint 
has  ever  come  from  him.  Nevertheless,  some 
one  has  sent  me  an  envelope  containing  slips 
from  an  Indian  newspaper,  though  neither 
the  name  of  the  paper  nor  the  date  accom- 
panies them,  and  I  gather  from  these  that  a 
most  furious  controversy  has  been  going  on 


104      THE  LATE  ME.    W ATKINS   OF  GEORGIA 

among  the  professors  of  folk-lore  in  that  far- 
away country.  One  communication  charges 
that  Sir  Waddy  Wyndham  has  been  deceived, 
first  by  his  own  imagination,  and  second  by 
"  a  South  American  impostor."  There  is  no 
doubt  that  the  writer  of  the  communication 
is  a  very  learned  man,  and  he  touches  on  the 
folk-tales  of  India  in  a  way  that  shows  his 
familiarity  with  the  foot-notes  and  appen- 
dices of  a  great  number  of  volumes.  The 
next  in  order  is  a  card  from  Sir  Waddy  him- 
self, who  explains  that  the  attack  on  him  and 
his  "  South  American  correspondent "  is  the 
result  of  a  professional  grudge,  Sir  Waddy 
having  refused  to  admit  that  either  the  In- 
dian story  or  the  alleged  South  American 
"fragment"  is  intended  to  typify  the  eclipse 
of  the  sun. 

I  have  reason  to  believe  that  this  unhappy 
controversy  has  spread  or  is  spreading  to 
other  countries,  and,  in  order  to  prevent  any 
misconception  or  misunderstanding,  —  seeing 
that  the  outline  of  the  American  story  on 
which  Sir  Waddy  bases  his  defense  is  imper- 
fect, —  I  deem  it  best  to  give  here  a  correct 
version  of  the  story  as  told  by  Mrs.  Caroline 
Biggers  to  Mrs.  Edie  Strickland,  and  repeated 


THE  LATE  ME.    WATKINS   OF  GEORGIA      105 

to  nie  by  Mrs.  Biggers  a  few  weeks  ago. 
This  can  be  done  in  the  lang-uagre  of  Mrs. 
Biggers,  who  is  a  pleasant  and  fairly  well 
educated  young  woman. 

"  I  thought  Miss  Eclie  done  mighty  funny 
when  she  told  me  you  wanted  to  see  me," 
said  Mrs.  Bikers,  striving"  to  hide  her  em- 
barrassment.  She  laughed  and  went  on.  "  I 
declare,  if  you  had  n't  come  out  there  just 
when  you  did,  I  would  have  been  gone  — 
gone.  Yes,  sir,  I  would.  If  I  could  tell 
tales  like  my  grandmother  did,  I  could  keep 
you  up  at  night.  But  nobody  can  tell  tales 
unless  they  're  sitting  in  front  of  a  big  wood 
fire,  where  the  sparks  will  fly  out  and  spangle 
right  before  your  eyes.  My  grandmother 
always  said  that  what  was  a  good  tale  at  night 
was  mighty  weak  talk  in  the  daytime.  And 
I  reckon  it 's  so,  because  she  was  a  mighty 
old  woman.  I  can  tell  you  what  I  told  Miss 
Edie,  but  I  know  mighty  well  it  won't  sound 
right."  Whereupon  Mrs.  Biggers  settled  her- 
self, and  told 

THE    STORY    OF    MR.    WATKINS 

"  Maybe  you  did  n't  know  much  about 
the  Watkinses.     Well,  they  lived  in  Jasper 


106      THE  LATE  MR.    WATKINS   OF  GEORGIA 

County,  and  a  mighty  big  family  it  was. 
Some  of  'em  was  good  people,  but  one  — 
old  Mr.  Watkins  —  was  mean  as  gar-broth. 
He  was  mean  and  rich.  You  take  notice, 
and  'most  all  the  time  you  '11  see  the  meanest 
folks  have  more  money  than  anybody  else. 
I  don't  know  why  it  is,  unless  it 's  because 
they  are  just  too  mean  to  spend  it.  Well, 
this  Mr.  Watkins  was  so  mean  that  he  had 
all  the  chincapin-trees,  and  all  the  chestnut- 
trees,  and  all  the  muscadine  vines,  and  all 
the  plum-bushes  on  his  place  cut  down  to 
keep  the  children  from  getting  them.  Now, 
you  know  that  wa'n't  right,  was  it  ?  I  tell 
you,  now,  when  anybody  gets  that  mean, 
something  will  certainly  happen  to  'em. 

"  It  seemed  like  everybody  knew  how  mean 
this  Mr.  Watkins  was,  and  they  tried  to  shun 
him.  When  people  went  by  his  house  go- 
ing to  church,  or  coming  back  from  frolics, 
they  'd  stop  talking  and  laughing.  Some  of 
'em  would  say,  '  Hush  !  Mr.  Watkins  may  be 
out  on  his  front  porch  ; '  and  then  they  'd  go 
by  just  like  somebody  was  dead  in  the  house. 
And  my  grandmother  used  to  say  that  some- 
times they  'd  hear  noises  like  somebody  was 
in  great  pain. 


THE  LATE  MR.    W ATKINS   OF  GEORGIA      107 

"  But  Mr.  Watkins  did  n't  pay  any  atten- 
tion to  how  people  done,  so  long  as  tkey 
did  n't  come  bothering!"  him.  He  was  all 
crippled  up  like  he  had  the  palsy  or  some- 
thing, and  he  had  to  be  moved  about  from 
room  to  room.  He  could  walk  a  little  by 
holding  on  to  two  of  his  negroes  and  shuf- 
fling along,  but  in  general  they  toted  him 
about  on  a  chair.  Once  a  week  he  went  to 
town.  They  toted  him  out  to  his  buggy  and 
wrapped  a  blanket  around  his  legs,  and  then 
a  little  negro,  about  the  size  of  Miss  Edie's 
Zach,  got  in  the  buggy  and  drove  him  to 
town.  There  he  'd  get  his  jimmy-john  filled, 
and  then  he  'd  go  back  home  and  sit  in  his 
front  porch  and  talk  to  himself  all  day  when 
he  was  n't  dozing-. 

"  I  can't  tell  it  like  my  grandmother  did. 
She  used  to  get  started,  and  she  'd  stand  up 
on  the  floor  and  shuffle  around  and  roll  her 
eyeballs  and  skeer  us  children  mighty  near  to 
death. 

"  Now,  you  'd  think  that  nobody  would  be 
afraid  of  Mr.  Watkins,  weak  and  crippled 
like  that  ;  but  he  had  everybody  on  his  place 
under  his  thumb.  Temper  !  he  was  rank 
poison.     And  cuss  !  my  grandmother  used  to 


108      THE  LATE  MR.    W ATKINS   OF  GEORGIA 

say  he  'd  lean  back  in  his  seat  and  cuss  till 
he  'd  make  the  cold  chills  run  up  and  down 
your  back.  He  could  sit  right  still  and  run 
the  chickens  out  of  the  garden  and  drive  the 
dogs  off  the  place.  Now,  you  know  a  man 
must  be  mighty  mean  when  he  can  stay  right 
still  and  do  all  that. 

"  This  was  during  the  week-days.  On  Sun- 
day—  well !  "  Here  Mrs.  Biggers  raised  both 
hands  vigorously,  and  then  permitted  them  to 
fall  helplessly  in  her  lap.  "  That  was  the  day 
he  let  his  meanness  come  out,  sure  enough. 
I  know  you  ain't  ready  to  believe  what  I  'm 
going  to  tell  you.  The  children  believed  it 
because  my  grandmother  told  it  at  night 
when  she  was  combing  her  hair.  She  said 
her  grandmother  was  well  acquainted  with 
Mr.  Watkins,  because  she  lived  on  a  joining 
plantation.  Some  things  she  heard  tell  of, 
and  some  she  saw  with  her  own  eyes.  I  told 
you  that  Mr.  Watkins  was  rich.  Well,  I 
don't  know  whether  he  had  much  money, 
but  he  had  a  heap  of  negroes.  And  he 
made  'em  work.  Yes,  sir,  work  !  Up  in  the 
morning  by  the  crack  of  day  —  work,  work 
—  until  dark,  and,  if  the  moon  shone,  until 
away    in    the    night.     And    that   wa'n't   all. 


THE  LATE  ME.    WATKINS   OF  GEORGIA      109 

No,  sir  !  He  made  'em  work  Sundays  !  I  'm 
telling  you  the  truth.  Sundays  !  I  know 
that  it  don't  look  like  the  truth,  but  my 
grandmother  heard  her  grandmother  tell 
about  it,  and  this  much  she  saw  with  her 
own  eyes. 

"  Yes,  sir  !  That  old  man,  crippled  and 
trembly  as  he  was,  made  his  negroes  work  on 
Sunday  same  as  any  other  day.  He  'd  make 
'em  tote  him  out  to  the  field  and  put  him  up 
on  a  stump  close  by  the  big  road,  and  there 
he  'd  stay  all  day.  If  he  saw  anybody  com- 
ing along  the  road,  he  'd  wave  his  stick,  and 
the  negroes  would  lay  down  in  the  field  till 
the  people  went  by.  Then  he  'd  wave  his 
stick,  and  the  negroes  would  get  up  and  go 
to  work  again. 

"  I  don't  know  how  long  this  went  on  —  I 
can't  tell  it  like  my  grandmother  did,  because 
she  went  through  the  motions ;  but  Mr.  Wat- 
kins  made  his  negroes  work  Sunday  after 
Sunday.  They  worked  until  he  waved  his 
walking-cane  or  called  them,  and  then  they  'd 
come  and  tell  him  how  much  they  had  done. 
Then  they  'd  take  him  off  the  stump  and  put 
him  in  his  chair  and  tote  him  to  the  house. 

"  Well,  one  Sunday,  while  the  negroes  were 


110      THE  LATE  MB.    W ATKINS   OF  GEORGIA 

at  work,  a  man  passed  along  the  road,  and 
Mr.  Watkins  did  n't  wave  his  cane.  But  the 
negroes  stopped  work  anyhow  and  looked  at 
him.  The  man  was  tall  and  dark-looking. 
He  had  on  hlack  clothes,  and  he  rode  a  big 
black  horse.  When  he  came  close  to  Mr. 
Watkins  there  was  a  flash  of  fire.  Some 
said  the  man's  horse  hit  his  shoe  against  a 
flint  rock  and  made  the  blaze,  and  some  said 
not.  My  grandmother  did  n't  know  how  that 
was,  because  her  grandmother  was  n't  there 
to  see.  But  there  was  the  tall  dark  man 
riding  a  big  black  horse,  and  there  was  the 
flash  of  fire,  and  there  on  the  stump  was  Mr. 
Watkins. 

"  Well,  sir,  when  the  time  come  for  the 
negroes  to  quit  work,  Mr.  Watkins  did  n't 
wave  his  cane,  and  so  they  kept  on  until  it 
got  too  dark  to  work.  Then  they  went  to 
where  Mr.  Watkins  was  perched  up  on  the 
stump,  and  asked  him  if  it  was  time  to  quit. 
He  would  n't  say  anything,  so  they  hung 
around  and  did  n't  know  what  to  do.  They 
thought  they  could  smell  brimstone  ;  but 
they  wa'n't  certain.  Anyhow,  when  they 
tried  to  lift  Mr.  Watkins  off  the  stump 
they  could  n't   budge   him.     No,  sir !     They 


THE  LATE  MB.    W ATKINS   OF  GEORGIA      111 

could  n't  budge  him.  Some  of  the  negroes 
run  to  the  house  and  told  Mr.  Watkins's 
family,  and  they  got  torches  and  went  to  see 
about  it. 

"  Well,  sir,  Mr.  Watkins  had  done  growed 
to  the  stump.     I  know  you  won't  believe  me, 
because  I  'm  half  laughing  when  I  tell  you 
about  it,  but  my  grandmother,  she  could  tell 
it  with  a  straight  face.     She  was  old  and  set- 
tled.    Yes,  sir !  Mr.  Watkins  was  growed  to 
the  stump,  and  they  could  n't  pull  him  loose. 
First  they  pulled  and  then  they  tried  to  prize 
him  up.     But  there  he  was.     It  seemed  like 
the    stump    had   fastened   to    him   somehow. 
They  sent  for  the  doctor,  but  you  know  your- 
self the  doctor  could  n't  do  nothing  for  a  man 
in  that  kind  of  a  fix.     He  might  drench  him 
with  horse  medicine,  and  even  that  would  n't 
do  any  good.     Mr.  Watkins  was  there  on  the 
stump,  and  no  doctor  could  n't  take  him  loose. 
The  doctor  came,  but  what  good   could  the 
doctor  do?     He  just  looked  at  Mr.  Watkins 
and  felt  of  him,  and  looked  at  the  stump  and 
felt  of  it,  and  then  he  shook  his  head  and 
rubbed  his  chin.     You  know  how  it  is  when 
a  doctor  shakes  his  head  and  rubs  his  chin. 
That  was  the  way  it  was  with  Mr.  Watkins. 


112      THE  LATE  MR.    W ATKINS   OF  GEORGIA 

"  People  come  and  looked  at  him,  but  they 
could  n't  do  any  good,  and,  after  so  long  a 
time,  the  negroes  dug  the  stump  up  and  put 
it  in  a  wagon  with  Mr.  Watkins  and  carried 
'em  both  home.  There  they  was,  Mr.  Wat- 
kins  and  the  stump.  Then  when  the  time 
come  to  bury  Mr.  Watkins,  they  had  to  bury 
the  stump  with  him.  I  won't  blame  you  if 
you  don't  believe  all  this,  but  my  grandmother 
vowed  that  her  grandmother  saw  Mr.  Watkins 
on  the  stump,  and  if  you  could  hear  her  tell 
it  you  'd  feel  like  every  word  of  it  was  so,  and 
you  'd  never  forget  it  as  long  as  you  lived." 

This  is  the  story  the  rough  outline  of  which 
has  caused  such  a  commotion  among  the  folk- 
lore students  and  scholars  in  India,  in  Bom- 
bay and  Jahore.  There  are  symptoms  that 
the  controversy  is  to  be  transferred,  in  part 
at  least,  to  these  shores,  and  I  feel  it  to  be 
due  to  all  concerned  that  a  true  version  of 
the  story  of  the  late  Mr.  Watkins  of  Georgia, 
together  with  all  the  facts  in  the  case,  should 
be  laid  before  the  public.  No  one  can  re- 
gret more  than  I  do  that  any  act  or  word  of 
mine,  however  well  intended,  should  have  pro- 
voked, even  indirectly,  a  controversy  that  has 


THE  LATE  MB.    W ATKINS   OF  GEORGIA      113 

resulted  in  the  resignation  of  Sir  Waddy 
Wyndham  as  secretary  of  the  Folk-Lore  So- 
ciety of  Jahore,  a  position  he  has  adorned 
during  the  last  five  years. 

The  question  arises,  What  bearing  has  the 
Indian  folk-lore  story  on  the  final  episode  in 
the  career  of  the  late  Mr.  Watkins  of  Geor- 
gia? 


A  BELLE  OF   ST.   VALERIEN 


You  will  flit  through  on  the  steam  cars,  or 
rush  along1  the  great  winding  river,  and  say, 
(i  It  is  a  very  fine  life  here  in  New  France." 
You  will  look  to  the  right,  you  will  look  to 
the  left,  and,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see,  the 
roofs  and  steeples  of  the  little  churches  will 
be  sparkling  in  the  sun,  and  you  will  say, 
"  How  beautiful !  How  full  of  peace  and  re- 
pose !  "  and  if  you  go  away  from  the  river 
and  the  railway  you  will  say,  "  What  sim- 
plicity !  What  contentment !  "  When  you 
come  to  St.  Valerien,  you  will  say,  "  The  life 
here  is  the  most  beautiful  of  all."  Yes ;  that 
is  because  you  want  to  get  away  from  the 
noise  and  confusion.  It  is  very  beautiful  at 
St.  Valerien.  The  gentle  cure,  smiling  al- 
ways, moves  slowly  along  the  board  walk  to 
the  little  church.  The  bright-eyed  boys  who 
attend  the  school  of  the  Freres  Maristes,  close 
by,   are  not  boisterous   at    their    play.     The 


A   BELLE  OF  ST.    VALERIEN  115 

neighbors  do  not  talk  loudly  when  they  gos- 
sij)  together,  and  the  cattle  lie  down  in  the 
fields  long  before  noon.  Everything  has  the 
air  of  repose ;  contentment  seems  to  brood 
everywhere. 

Very  well.  But  suppose  you  were  com- 
pelled to  remain  in  St.  Valerien,  and  partake 
of  its  peace  and  contentment  from  year's  end 
to  year's  end  ?  A  few  weeks  in  the  summer, 
when  the  children  are  picking  wild  raspberries 
in  the  fields  near  by,  and  singing  their  songs, 
—  that  is  not  much.  But  a  whole  lifetime  ! 
Well,  yes,  that  is  another  matter.  Look  at 
Monsieur  Phaneuf.  Seventy-seven  years  here 
at  St.  Valerien,  and  every  hour  of  them  spent 
within  sight  of  the  shining  church  steeple. 
You  think  he  is  contented  ?  Well,  then,  keep 
away  from  him,  if  you  do  not  want  to  hear 
your  funeral  preached.  Look  at  Madame 
Delima  Benoit.  Born  here  at  St.  Valerien  ; 
married  three  husbands  here,  and  buried  two. 
You  think  she  ought  to  be  happy  and  con- 
tented? Well,  then,  don't  pass  her  doors 
without  putting  your  fingers  in  your  ears. 
You  see  Aime  Joutras,  the  tall  shoemaker ; 
Aime,  but  yes,  it  is  a  friendly  name.  You 
see  him  there  on  the  corner  —  tap,  tap,  tap, 


11G  A   BELLE  OF  ST.    VALERIEN 

—  stitch,  stitch,  stitch,  —  all  day  long1,  and 
humming  a  tune ;  you  see  him  cut  out  the 
sabot,  you  see  him  fashion  the  soulier-de- 
bceuf,  and  you  think,  "  Here  is  a  man  who 
ought  to  glow  with  happiness."  But  good  ! 
Wait  till  you  hear  him  railing  at  his  little 
ones,  and  growling  at  the  belle-mere  who  is 
at  once  his  slave  and  his  benefactress.  Wait 
till  you  see  him  jostle  rudely  against  the  old 
pejiere  who  sits  drooling  and  dribbling  in  the 
corner,  and  then  tell  me  whether  he  is  happy 
and  contented.  Look,  yonder  is  Euphemie 
Toupin,  running  lightly  across  the  fields,  the 
roses  blooming  in  her  face,  her  eyes  spar- 
kling with  youth  and  hope,  and  her  beautiful 
hair  flying  loose  in  the  wind.  Presently  you 
will  hear  her  calling  the  cows,  — "  Come 
thou  !  Come  thou  on  !  "  and  the  echo  will  fall 
softly  and  sweetly  on  her  own  ears,  —  "  Come 
thou  !  Come  thou  on  !  "  And  then  the  mem- 
ory of  another  voice  calling  thus  in  a  neigh- 
boring field  will  rise  in  her  heart,  and  she 
will  clasp  her  hands  together  and  give  way  to 
her  misery. 

No,  no,  messieurs,  the  peace  and  content- 
ment at  St.  Valerien,  as  elsewhere,  are  found 
in  the  deep  skies,  in  the   purple  mists   that 


A   BELLE  OF  ST.    VALEMEN  117 

settle  over  the  far-lying  fields,  and  in  the  little 
garden  of  the  dead.  There  is  life  here,  and 
where  there  is  life  there  you  will  find  trouble 
and  passion,  doubt  and  despair,  and,  whirling 
in  and  around  these,  the  stinging  swarm  of 
worries  and  vexations  that  belong:  to  human 
experience.  Is  it  not  so,  Caderet?  Is  it  not 
so,  Desmoulins?  Where  men  and  women  meet 
and  look  at  each  other,  and  smile  and  take 
hold  of  hands,  there  is  much  to  be  forgotten 
and  forgiven. 

There  was  Euphrasie  Charette.  Is  it  true, 
then,  that  you  have  never  heard  of  her  ?  I 
wonder  at  that,  for  it  was  a  fine  piece  of  gos- 
sip she  set  going  about  here.  The  men 
shrugged  their  shoulders  and  lifted  their  eye- 
brows, and  the  women  put  their  heads  to- 
gether over  the  palings  and  in  the  chimney 
corners.  Pouah !  to  hear  the  chatter  was 
sickening,  and  it  was  kept  up  until,  one  Sun- 
day, Pere  Archambault  stood  up  in  his  pulpit 
and  looked  at  the  people  a  long  time.  Then 
he  hung  his  head  and  sighed,  saying,  "  My 
friends,  to-day  I  shall  preach  you  two  sermons. 
My  first  sermon  is  this  :  What  is  bolder  than 
innocence  ?  "  Then  he  paused  again,  turned 
over  the  leaves  of  the  Book,  read  from  the 


118  A   BELLE  OF  ST.    V ALEE  I  EN 

gospel,  and  preached  his  second  sermon,  on 
charity. 

Well,  the  gossip  soon  died  out,  and  no 
wonder  ;  for,  with  all  her  beauty  and  wild 
impulsiveness,  where  could  be  found  a  purer 
or  a  tenderer-hearted  girl  than  Euphrasie  Cha- 
rette  ?  It  will  be  very  many  years  before  an- 
other such  as  she  will  be  running  and  romp- 
ing and  singing  through  the  village,  laughing 
with  the  young  and  sympathizing  with  the 
old.  This  was  when  the  great  world  beyond 
St.  Valerien  was  a  dream  as  vague  to  her  as 
the  story  of  le  loup-garou.  Then,  when  she 
was  a  little  older  and  more  beautiful  than 
ever,  she  was  sent  to  the  convent  at  St. 
Hyacinthe,  and  there  she  heard  larger  ru- 
mors of  the  great  world.  She  had  not  much 
to  learn  in  music,  —  her  whole  nature  was 
tuned  to  melody  ;  but  while  she  was  learning 
her  English  and  her  other  lessons,  she  was 
also  learning:  something;  of  the  world  she  had 
barely  caught  a  glimpse  of.  Not  much,  no, 
but  something, — just  a  little.  Two  of  her 
school  friends  were  from  the  States.  French, 
yes  ;  their  families  belonged  near  Montreal, 
but  had  gone  to  the  States,  where  work  is 
easy  and  wages  are  good.     Euphrasie,  inquis- 


A   BELLE   OF  ST.    VALE1UEN  119 

itive  as  a  weasel,  found  out  everything  her 
school  friends  knew;  how  their  mothers 
worked  in  the  big  cotton-mills,  and  how  their 
older  sisters  clerked  in  the  stores.  She  saw 
some  photographs  of  these  sisters,  and  oh, 
how  lovely  they  looked,  with  their  lace  and 
finery,  and  their  hair  frise  !  And  she  saw 
some  of  the  letters  the  girls  wrote,  telling  of 
the  gay  times  the  young  people  had  in  the 
mill  town. 

All  this  in  the  ears  of  a  child  of  St.  Vale- 
rien.  She  was  not  young,  —  seventeen  is 
neither  old  nor  young,  —  but  she  was  at  the 
turning-point.  Take  it  to  yourself  !  Would 
you  prefer  the  life  in  St.  Valerien  to  that  in 
the  mill  town  in  the  States,  where  everything 
is  gay  ?  Think  of  it  !  All  the  summer  long, 
calling  the  cows  and  milking  them,  cooking, 
scrubbing,  working,  raking  hay  ;  all  the  win- 
ter long,  mending,  scrubbing,  washing,  spin- 
ning, weaving,  and  attending  to  the  sheep 
and  cattle.  It  is  very  nice,  you  think.  Yes, 
for  a  little  while,  but  wait  until  you  have  tried 
it  for  a  whole  lifetime,  and  then  tell  me  what 
you  think. 

Well,  Ma'm'selle  Charette  was  old  enough  to 
look  at  these  things,  and  she  made  up  her 


120  A   BELLE  OF  ST.    VALER1EN 

mind.  She  liked  St.  Valerien,  and  she  was 
fond  of  the  people  here  ;  and  she  was  so  fond 
of  Joi  Billette,  her  little  cavalier,  that  the 
children  had  long1  ago  run  their  names  to- 
gether  in  some  nonsense  rhymes.  Euphrasie 
Charette,  little  Joi  Billette,  —  you  see  how 
they  go  ?  She  made  up  her  mind  that  she 
would  see  something  of  those  gay  times  in 
the  mill  town  in  the  States,  and  so  when  she 
came  home  from  the  convent  there  was  no 
longer  any  peace  among  the  Charettes.  Eu- 
phrasie could  not  go  to  the  mill  town  in  the 
States  ;  that  was  settled.  Madame  Charette 
said  so,  and  madame  had  a  quick  temper 
and  a  sharp  tongue.  "  And  you ! "  she  would 
say  to  Euphrasie,  —  "  how  would  you  look, 
a  young  girl  like  you,  running  away  to  the 
States  ?  Have  you  any  shame  ?  "  But  Pierre 
Charette,  the  father,  sat  in  the  corner  and 
smiled  to  himself.  He  had  been  in  the 
States,  and  he  knew  it  was  no  great  journey. 
"  Would  you  then  go  away  and  leave  Joi  and 
St.  Valerien  ?"  madame  would  say. 

"  What,  then,"  Euphrasie  would  reply,  "  is 
Joi  a  stick  that  he  can  no  longer  walk  ?  And 
what  storm  is  to  blow  St.  Valerien  away  ?  " 

Then  letters  came  to  Euphrasie  from  her 


A  BELLE  OF  ST.    VALERIEN  121 

school  friends  ;  and  finally  her  sister,  the  wife 
of  Victor  Donais,  made  up  her  mind  to  go  to 
the  States.  As  for  Victor,  he  said  that  where 
the  tongs  went  the  shovel  must  go,  and  that 
was  all.  Madame  Charette  made  a  fine  quarrel, 
—  the  sheep  in  the  fields  could  hear  her;  but 
Pierre  Charette  sat  in  the  corner  smoking  his 
black  pipe  and  smiling  to  himself  ;  and  when 
madame  could  quarrel  no  more,  he  rubbed  his 
knees,  and  said  that  Euphrasie  would  find 
much  benefit  in  traveling  in  the  States. 

"  Oho  !  a  fine  lady  !  traveling  in  the 
States  !  But  yes,  a  fine  lady  !  She  will  have 
money,  —  oh,  a  great  pocketful  !  Oh,  cer- 
tainly !  "  Madame  Charette  made  a  grand 
gesture. 

"  Well,  then,"  remarked  Joi  Billette,  who 
was  sitting  near  Euphrasie,  his  head  leaning 
on  his  hands,  "  she  can  have  some  money 
from  me." 

"  Yes  ?  Then  you  would  do  well  to  keep 
it  for  yourself." 

"  It  is  hers,"  Joi  said.  "  I  can  make 
more." 

There  was  nothing;  to  do  but  for  Madame 
Charette  to  give  her  consent ;  and  though 
her  tongue  was  sharp  her  heart  was  tender, 


122  A   BELLE  OF  ST.    VALERIE^ 

for  she  wept  more  than  any  one  when  Eu- 
phrasie  was  going,  and  in  the  long  nights 
afterwards  she  lay  awake  to  weep.  Bnt  there 
was  so  much  to  do  nobody  could  sit  and 
grieve.  Joi  Billette  worked  harder  than  ever, 
and  he  found  time  to  help  the  madame.  He 
cut  wood  and  carried  water,  and  she  told  him 
he  was  handier  about  the  house  than  Euphra- 
sie,  who  had  too  many  ideas  from  books. 

It  was  not  such  a  long  year,  after  all.  In 
the  spring  and  summer  there  was  the  farm 
work  to  do,  the  milk  to  be  carried  to  the 
cheese  factory,  and  the  bark  to  be  gathered 
for  the  tannery.  Everybody  was  busy,  and 
Joi  Billette  was  busiest  of  all.  For  a  little 
while  Euphrasie  wrote  to  him  every  week, 
and  then  she  wrote  no  more.  Joi  said  no- 
thino-.  He  could  hear  of  her  through  Ma- 
dame  Charette,  and  that  was  enough.  Per- 
haps she  was  too  busy, —  perhaps  everything, 
except  that  she  had  forgotten  him.  So  the 
year  went  on,  and  at  last  Euphrasie  wrote 
that  she  was  coming  home  for  the  fete  of 
Jour  de  l'An.  It  is  the  custom  here  for  the 
absent  ones  to  return  home  on  the  first  day 
of  the  year,  to  ask  their  father's  blessing; 
and  there  is  often  a  friendly  contest  among 


A   BELLE   OF  ST.    VALERIEN  123 

the  members  of  the  family  as  to  which  shall 
get  the  blessing  first. 

Euphrasie  came  on  the  Day  of  the  New 
Year,  and  she  was  dressed  very  fine,  —  oh, 
ever  so  much  finer  than  any  girl  you  see  here 
in  St.  Valerien.  When  her  father  had  given 
her  his  blessing,  he  sat  and  watched  her  curi- 
ously a  long  time  without  smiling.  Then  he 
said  in  English,  speaking  slowly  :  — 

"  I  ting  you  toss  you'  'ead  too  much." 

"  Me  toss  my  'ead  too  much  !  "  replied  Eu- 
phrasie. "  Well,  you  should  see  dem  girl  of 
Fall  River.  If  you  can  see  dem  girl  toss  'er 
'ead,  I  ting  you  won't  say  I  toss  my  'ead 
too  much.'1 

"  I  ting  you  'ave  too  much  feader  on  de 
'at,"  suggested  the  father,  not  without  some 
display  of  diffidence.  His  daughter  had  de- 
veloped into  a  beautiful  young  woman,  and 
her  finery  was  not  unbecoming. 

"  Well,  now  !  "  Euphrasie  retorted  trium- 
phantly, "if  you  only  can  see  how  much 
feader  dem  oder  girl  'ave,  I  ting  you  will  say 
dere  is  not  one  feader  on  my  'at." 

"  What  is  it,  then  ? "  cried  the  madame 
sharply.     She  could  not  understand  English. 

"  C'est  rien,  ma  bonne  femme,"  the  old 
man  sighed. 


124  A  BELLE  OF  ST.    VALERIEN 

"  I  ting  I  give  you  good  'ug  for  dat."  Eu- 
plirasie  put  her  arms  around  her  father's 
neck. 

He  shook  his  head  slowly  as  he  filled  his 
pipe,  and  said  no  more. 

Joi  Billette  sat  in  the  corner,  watching 
everything  and  listening.  He  was  restless 
and  uneasy.  He  was  quick  to  see  the  great 
change  that  had  come  over  Euphrasie.  She 
was  no  longer  his  little  girl  of  St.  Valerien. 
The  change  meant  more  to  him  than  it  did  to 
the  others.  More  than  once  it  seemed  to  him 
that  some  other  girl  had  donned  Euphrasie's 
face  and  voice  for  a  New  Year's  masquerade. 
He  had  heard  of  such  things  in  the  fireside 
folk  tales.  Would  Euphrasie  look  at  him 
scornfully  or  speak  to  him  mockingly,  as  this 
vision  of  beauty  did  ?  No,  it  could  not  be 
so.  He  looked  at  his  hard  and  horny  hands, 
at  his  coarse  and  dirty  shoes,  at  his  rough 
clothes,  and  then  at  the  trim,  neat  figure  of 
Euphrasie,  her  white  hands  and  dainty  feet. 
He  rose,  playing  with  his  hat  nervously,  and 
would  have  slipped  away,  but  Pierre  Charette 
laid  a  detaining  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  Wouldst  thou  go,  then  ?  Thy  place  is 
here.     Let  the  women  talk." 


A  BELLE  OF  ST.    VALEEIEN  125 

At  that  moment  Euphrasie  was  busy  tell- 
ing- Suzette  Benoit  about  a  Monsieur  Sam 
Pettingill,  who  had  come  all  the  way  from 
Fall  River  to  Montreal,  and  who  was  coming 
to  St.  Valerien.  Pierre  Charette  was  carry- 
ing his  pipe  to  his  mouth,  but  he  paused,  with 
his  hand  suspended  in  the  air. 

"  'Ow  you  call  'is  name  ? "  he  asked  in 
English. 

"M'sieu  Sam  Pattangeel,"  said  Euphrasie, 
reddening  a  little. 

"  You  know  'im,  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  'e  was  clerk  in  de  mill  store." 

"  'E  clerk  dere  no  more  ;  no  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  yes.  'E  is  taking  his  recess. 
'E  belong  at  de  store."  Euphrasie  contin- 
ued to  redden.  English  was  not  often  heard 
in  that  house,  and  the  women  were  vainly 
straining  their  ears  to  catch  the  meaning". 

"  Aha-a-a!"  exclaimed  the  old  man.  There 
was  the  faintest  trace  of  contempt  in  his  tone. 

"  'E  say  'e  come  to  see  de  country,  if  'e 
like  it  or  not,"  explained  Euphrasie. 

"  If  'e  like  it,  den  'e  carry  it  back  to  'is 
'ouse  ?  "  Pierre  Charette  suggested. 

"  'Ow  'e  can  do  dat  ?  "  asked  Euphrasie. 

"I  'ave  seen  dem  clerk,  me,"  said  the  old 


126  A  BELLE  OF  ST.    VALEEIEN 

man.  "  Dey  cle  mos'  pow'ful  of  all.  If  dis 
one  like  de  country  so  'e  mus'  take  it  back, 
what  we  goin'  do?  If  'e  don't  like  it  so  'e 
mus'  take  'is  scissor  to  cut  it  off,  what  we 
goin'  do?  " 

Euphrasie  could  not  misunderstand  the 
sarcasm  that  seasoned  the  old  man's  tongue. 
It  touched  her  temper. 

"  If  'e  come  visitin'  de  country,  'ow  I  can 
'elp  'im?  If  you  can  'elp  'im,  den  go  'elp 
'im."     Her  tone  was  sharper  than  her  words. 

"  Ah-h-h  !  "  cried  Pierre  Charette,  "  dat  is 
'ow  you  fine  ladies  talk  to  old  man  !" 

"No,  no,"  said  the  girl  impulsively,  "I 
mean  not  dat.  No,  no."  She  went  to  her 
father  and  would  have  embraced  him,  but  he 
pushed  her  away  and  resumed  his  pipe,  while 
Euphrasie  threw  herself  on  a  chair  and  began 
to  cry. 

But  it  was  a  small  storm,  more  wind  than 
rain,  as  the  farmers  say,  and  it  soon  passed 
over,  but  not  until  the  madame  had  made 
some  vigorous  remarks,  aimed  at  those  who 
forget  themselves  sufficiently  to  quarrel  in 
the  English  tongue.  It  was  a  queer  father 
who  would  abuse  his  daughter  the  instant  she 
set    foot    in    the  house,  and  it   was  a  queer 


A  BELLE  OF  ST.    VALEBIEN  127 

daughter  who  would  be  disrespectful  to  the 
father  she  had  not  seen  for  a  year,  —  and  all 
in  English,  too.  Well,  madame  knew  men, 
large  and  small,  and  she  knew  girls,  old  and 
young,  but  never  did  she  know  such  a  man 
as  this,  never  did  she  see  such  a  girl.  As  for 
the  English,  —  bah  !     C'est  la  blague  ! 

II 

Around  the  corner  from  Pierre  Charette's 
and  not  very  far  up  the  street  is  the  little 
auberge,  kept  by  Toussaint  Chicoine.  There 
Joi  Billette  went  when  he  could  slip  out  of 
the  family  storm,  and  there  he  found  some  of 
his  village  comrades  sitting1  around  the  huge 
stove  in  the  public  room,  listening  to  the 
famous  stories  told  by  Chicoine.  Of  course 
you  will  think  Chicoine  is  nobody,  because 
he  can  do  nothing  but  keep  this  tavern,  with 
his  mother  and  his  sisters  and  his  old  father. 
But  good !  You  wait !  Before  long  you  will 
see  that  man  in  the  Parliament  at  Quebec. 
When  he  is  not  telling  stories  he  is  talking 
politics.  Some  people  are  quick  to  forget. 
Chicoine  is  fifty,  and  remembers.  A  Liberal? 
Yes,  and  better,  —  a  Red  ;  le  Rouge  written 
in  his  glowing  eyes  and  in 'his  quick  gestures. 


128  A   BELLE   OF  ST.    VALEEIEN 

No  sooner  had  Joi  Billette  settled  himself  to 
listen  to  Chicoine's  tremendous  yarns  than 
the  sound  of  sleighbells  was  heard  coming 
over  the  snow. 

"  One  dollar  it  is  Barie's  horse,"  said  Chi- 
coine, —  "  Barie  of  Upton." 

"  How  then  can  you  know  ? "  asked  Joi 
Billette. 

"  Hard-head !  It  is  hy  the  sound  of  the 
bells.     Listen  !  " 

"  It  is  even  so,"  said  Pierre  Charette,  who 
had  followed  Joi. 

At  that  moment  the  sleigh  paused  at  the 
door,  and  Barie  himself  called  out :  — 

"  Hey,  Chicoine  !  Hey  !  Are  you  deaf, 
then?" 

"  Good-day,  Barie,"  said  Chicoine,  opening 
the  door.  "  Good-day,  m'sieu.  Within  you 
will  find  it  warmer." 

"  It  is  to  be  hoped,"  replied  Barie  dryly. 
"I  have  brought  you  a  customer,  Chicoine," 
he  continued.  "  Lift  your  feet ;  make  some 
stir." 

The  customer  Barie  had  brought  was  Mr. 
Sam  Pettingill,  of  Fall  River.  He  was  nice 
looking,  yes,  but  you  would  not  say  he  was 
fine.     He  had  yellow  hair  and  gray  eyes,  and 


A  BELLE  OF  ST.    VALEBIEN  129 

one  of  his  front  teeth  was  gone.  He  was 
smoking  a  cigarette,  and  he  had  a  look  on 
his  face  as  if  he  knew  a  great  deal  more  than 
older  people.  He  kept  trying  to  twist  his 
little  mustache,  which  was  too  thin  to  be 
twisted. 

"  Great  Scott !  "  he  exclaimed,  as  he  got 
out  of  the  sleigh ;  "  is  this  the  Hotel  Impe- 
rial?" 

"'Ow  you  please,"  replied  Chicoine  gravely. 
"  'Otel,  auberge,  'ouse,  —  it  all  de  same  when 
you  git  col'  an'  'ungry.  You  spik  French? 
No?"        * 

"  Rats !  "  cried  young  Mr.  Pettingill. 
"  How  can  I  speak  French  in  this  weather  ? 
It  freezes  everything  except  American  cuss- 
words.  You  ask  his  Nibs,  here,  if  it  don't." 
Barie  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  threw  the 
sleigh  robe  over  his  horse.  "  You  may  n't 
have  much  of  a  hotel,"  said  Pettingill,  "  but 
maybe  you  've  got  a  fire.  It 's  colder  'n 
Flujens." 

With  his  hat  on  the  side  of  his  head,  and 
his  red  cravat  creeping  from  under  his  over- 
coat, Pettingill  swaggered  into  the  little  tav- 
ern and  stood  close  to  the  bio;  stove.  Joi 
Billette  looked  at  the  new-comer,  and  then  at 


130  A   BELLE  OF  ST.    VALERIEN 

Pierre  Charette.  Pierre  Charette  looked  at 
the  new-comer,  and  then  at  Joi  Billette. 
Each,  by  an  almost  imperceptible  shrug  of 
the  shoulders,  telegraphed  his  comment.  You 
know  how  the  shoulders  and  the  eyebrows  can 
talk  here  in  St.  Valerien :  a  word,  a  glance,  a 
little  movement  of  the  shoulders,  and  much 
more  than  a  long  story  is  told. 

"  Say  !  "  said  Pettingill,  removing  his  over- 
coat, "  I  don't  see  no  hotel  register  around 
here,  but  I  guess  that 's  all  skewvee.  My 
name  's  Pettingill,  and  it  would  be  the  same 
if  it  was  wrote  down  in  a  book." 

"  Hall  ri'j  m'sieu,"  returned  Toussaint  Chi- 
coine,  bowing.  "  You  'ear  dat,  Joutras  ? 
You  'ear  dat,  Billette  ?  You  'ear  dat,  every- 
body?    M'sieu  Pattungeel." 

"  Kee-rect,"  said  Pettingill  approvingly. 
"  You  flatten  it  a  little  too  much  in  the  mid- 
dle, and  pull  it  out  too  much  at  the  end,  but 
that  's  my  maiden  name."  He  shook  himself, 
and  strode  around  the  room,  looking  at  the 
cheap  prints  pasted  on  the  wall.  The  little 
company  looked  at  each  other  somewhat 
sheepishly,  all  save  Charette  and  Chicoine. 
Charette  stood  gloomily  by  the  stove,  wdnle 
Chicoine,  with  his  arms  akimbo  and  his  chin 


A  BELLE  OF  ST.    VALEBIEN  131 

drawn  in  until  it  was  hid  by  the  muscles  of 
his  neck,  watched  Pettingill  closely. 

At  one  end  of  the  room,  above  a  worn  and 
battered  sofa,  hung  a  faded  tintype.  It  was 
the  picture  of  a  very  old  man.  He  was  lean- 
ing forward  on  a  stout  cane,  and  a  weak  and 
trembling  smile  had  been  caught  and  fastened 
on  his  face. 

"What  old  duck  is  this?"  asked  Pettin- 
gill,  after  studying  the  picture.  Receiving 
no  answer,  he  turned  and  looked  at  Chicoine. 

"  'Ow  you  call  it,  m'sieu  ?  "  Surely  there 
was  no  menace  in  the  sweetly  spoken  accent. 
Yet  something  that  he  heard  or  felt  caused 
Pettingill  to  change  his  question. 

"  What  old  gent  is  this?  "  he  asked. 

"  Dat  my  fader,"  replied  Chicoine. 

"  Is  he  still  kicking  ?  " 

"'Ow,  m'sieu?" 

"  Is  he  dead  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  m'sieu.     'E  right  in  dis  'ouse." 

"  Well,  I  wanter  know ! "  Pettingill  ex- 
claimed, with  genuine  admiration.  "  I  thought 
old  uncle  Cy  Pettingill,  down  to  Pittsfield, 
was  the  oldest  inhabitant,  but  the  colonel 
here  can  give  him  odds  and  beat  him  thirteen 
laps  in  a  mile." 


132  A  BELLE  OF  ST.    VALERIEN 

"'Ow  you  say,  m'sieu?"  asked  Chicoine. 

"  I  was  lettin'  out  a  family  secret.  Uncle 
Cy  Pettingill  is  so  old  he  can't  see  nothin' 
but  a  silver  dollar,  but  the  colonel  here  lays  a 
long  ways  over  him.  I  'd  like  to  see  them 
two  old  coons  git  together  and  jabber  about 
the  landin'  of  Christopher  Columbus." 

"  Yes,  yes,  m'sieu,  pair'aps  dat  would  be 
nice."  Chicoine  spoke  so  seriously  that  Pet- 
tingill had  to  lean  against  the  wall  to  laugh. 

"  Just  have  my  grip  sent  up  to  my  room," 
he  said,  after  a  while.  "  I  '11  hang  out  here 
a  day  or  two,  and  see  how  the  climate  suits 
my  complexion.  And  while  you're  about  it, 
you  might  jest  as  well  show  me  where  I  am 
to  roost." 

"  You  want  fin'  you'  room  ?  Well,  I  show 
you." 

He  led  Monsieur  Pettingill  up  a  narrow 
stairway  into  a  snug  little  attic. 

"  It  ain't  bigger  'n  a  squirrel  cage,"  said 
the  American. 

"  It  'ave  comfort."  Chicoine  stretched  his 
hand  toward  the  stovepipe,  which  ran  through 
a  sheet-iron  drum ;  then  he  went  down. 

Charette,  Billette,  Joutras,  and  the  rest  sat 
just  as  he  had  left  them.     They  had  neither 


A  BELLE  OF  ST.    VALERIEN  133 

moved  nor  spoken.  Chicoine  stood  and  glared 
at  them,  his  arms  akimbo,  his  chin  drawn  into 
his  neck,  and  his  under  lip  stuck  out  omi- 
nously. Suddenly  he  raised  his  right  arm,  and 
brought  down  his  clenched  fist  in  the  palm 
of  the  other  hand  with  a  tremendous  whack. 

"  Pig- !  beast !  that  he  should  strut  in  this 
place  !  But  that  I  had  pity  on  him  I  would 
have  crushed  him  with  my  hand."  Toussaint 
Chicoine's  eyes  gleamed. 

"  Softly,  softly  !  "  Pierre  Charette  raised 
his  hand. 

"Ah-h-h!  Softly,  yes,  softly.  Good! 
But  I  have  seen  my  old  father  take  off  his 
hat  and  bend  his  knee  to  just  such  a  man  as 
that.  Yes,  me  !  I  have  seen  that.  I  am 
old  enouo-h.  When  the  lord  of  the  land 
came  where  his  slaves  could  see  him  —  off 
hat !  bend  knee !  Well,  yes,  I  have  seen 
that."  The  veins  in  Chicoine's  neck  stood 
out  angrily. 

"  But  those  days,  they  are  no  more."  Cha- 
rette spoke  gently. 

"  No  ?  "  Chicoine  made  a  hideous  grimace. 
"  Well,  they  are  here  !  "  With  that  he  struck 
his  broad  breast  a  tremendous  blow.  "  For 
what  does  he  come  ?  " 


134  A   BELLE  OF  ST.    VALERIEN 

Joi  Billette  rose  and  shook  himself  vi- 
ciously, and  turned  his  back  to  the  stove. 
"  This  ugly  beast  is  detestable  !  " 

"  But  wait,  then  !  "  It  was  Joutras  who 
spoke.  "  What  the  thunder !  Are  we  all 
taking-  leave  of  ourselves  ?  Let  this  pig  alone. 
Is  he  stealing  corn  from  our  pen  ?  Well,  then, 
show  it  to  me." 

Pierre  Charette  chuckled  to  himself,  and 
Joi  Billette  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

It  was  not  Ions:  before  Monsieur  Pettingill 
came  down  from  his  room.  He  found  only 
Chicoine  and  Joi  Billette.  As  if  to  refresh 
his  memory  or  to  confirm  some  afterthought, 
he  went  again  to  the  portrait  of  old  Anthime 
Chicoine.  He  looked  at  it  a  little  while,  and 
then  shook  his  head. 

"  That  lays  over  uncle  Cy  Pettingill,"  he 
repeated,  with  admiration.  "  He  's  mighty 
nigh  too  old  to  make  a  shadder."  He  paused 
a  moment,  and  then,  with  just  the  faintest 
trace  of  embarrassment,  remarked :  "  Say  ! 
can  any  of  you  chaps  tell  me  where  Miss  Eu- 
phrasie  Charette  lives  ?  As  long  as  I  'm  in 
town,  with  nothin'  much  to  prey  on  my  mind, 
I  might  as  well  drop  in  an'  tell  her  I  'm  still 
her  humble-come-tumble.     See  ?  " 


A  BELLE  OF  ST.    VALERIEN  135 

"  I  dunno  if  I  can  show  you,"  said  Chi- 
coine ;  "  pair'aps  M'sieu  Billette  will  show 
you  de  'ouse.  He  been  dere  some  time  befo' 
now.  Is  not  that  so,  M'sieu  Billette  ?  "  he 
went  on,  switching  off  into  French.  "  I  have 
told  m'sieu  that  you  would  have  much  plea- 
sure to  show  him  the  house  of  Charette.  Is 
it  not  so,  then  ?  Ah,  little  boy  !  make  not 
your  face  to  wrinkle  so.  At  forty  you  will 
laugh  at  the  physic  of  this  land." 

Billette  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  he  did 
not  smile. 

"  'E  spik  only  French,"  said  Chicoine  to 
Pettingill,  by  way  of  explanation,  "  but  dat 
make  no  diffrance.  'E  can  show  you  de 
ouse. 

"  All  skewvee,"  said  Pettingill.  "  If  he 
can  walk  in  English,  that 's  enough  for  me." 

Joi  Billette,  coiled  in  the  chair,  had  seemed 
to  be  an  insignificant  creature,  but  when  he 
rose,  glancing  furtively  at  Chicoine,  it  was  seen 
that  he  was  taller  than  Pettingill,  —  taller 
and  stronger,  and  much  handsomer.  The 
innocence  of  youth  shone  in  his  face.  With- 
out a  word,  he  went  out  at  the  door,  followed 
by  Pettingill.  Billette's  slouching  gait  carried 
him  forward  swiftly,  and  in  a  few  moments 


136  A   BELLE  OF  ST.    VALERIEN 

he  paused,  waved  his  hand  toward  Charette's 
house,  from  which  the  blue  smoke  cheerfully 
curled,  and  stood  watching  Pettingill  as  he 
made  his  way  to  the  door.  He  saw  the  door 
open,  and  heard  Euphrasie's  exclamation  :  — 

"  Ah,  't  is  you.  I  di'  n'  ting  you  come  so 
soon." 

When  the  door  was  closed,  Billette  went 
forward  to  the  house,  and  passed  through  the 
yard  and  into  the  kitchen.  There  he  found 
Pierre  Charette  enjoying  his  pipe.  As  Joi 
entered,  Charette  nodded  his  head  toward  the 
inner  room  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Yes,"  said  Joi,  "  it  is  the  stranger.  Eu- 
phrasie  was  glad  to  see  him,  then  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  know  ?  "  responded  Charette. 
"  Of  the  women  we  know  nothing.  They 
pet  the  pig  and  scald  it.  Go  see  for  yourself 
if  she  is  glad.  The  man  cannot  compre- 
hend." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Joi,  the  blood  mounting  to 
his  face. 

"  You  have  fear,  then  ?     Yes  ?  " 

For  reply  Joi  laughed  loudly,  and  the  sound 
was  so  harsh  and  unnatural  that  those  in  the 
next  room  paused  to  listen,  and  madame  put 
her  head  in  the  door  to  make  inquiry. 


A  BELLE  OF  ST.    VALERIEN  137 

"Prutt!  prutt!"  exclaimed  Pierre  Cha- 
rette,  mimicking  the  inquisitive  turkey  hen. 
"  Allez-vous-en  !     Back  to  the  pig." 

Then  there  was  silence  in  the  kitchen. 
The  old  man  and  the  young  man  sat  smok- 
ing. Each  had  his  own  thoughts.  One  was 
thinking  how  much  money  his  grain  and  hay 
would  fetch ;  the  other  was  thinking  bitterly 
of  the  day,  a  year  ago,  when  he  and  Euphra- 
sie,  with  their  village  companions,  sang  their 
holiday  songs  together.  Ah  !  they  were  happy 
then,  but  now  — 

Madame  Charette  was  surely  at  her  best 
this  day.  She  rattled  away  at  Pettingill  in 
French,  and  Euphrasie  interpreted  the  words 
the  best  she  knew  how;  but  she  could  not 
keep  up,  madame  was  so  jolly  and  hearty. 
Pettingill  had  never  been  in  such  a  storm  of 
French  and  broken  English,  and  he  wished 
himself  well  out  of  it.  All  he  could  do  was 
to  sit  and  grin  helplessly,  and  mop  his  face 
aimlessly  with  his  gorgeous  silk  handkerchief. 
Euphrasie,  too,  was  jolly,  or  pretended  to  be, 
and  she  carried  on  her  interpretations  with  a 
great  deal  of  laughter. 

"  Ma  mere  say  if  you  like  dis  country  ?  " 
she  remarked. 


138  A   BELLE  OF  ST.    VALERIEN 

"Just  tell  her,"  said  Petting-ill,  "that  if 
she  will  give  me  the  daughter  she  may  keep 
the  country." 

"  'Ush  up,  you !  "  said  Euphrasie,  blush- 
ing ;  "  you  too  bad."  To  her  mother,  "  He 
is  very  fond  of  the  country,  oh,  —  much." 

This  caught  the  ear  of  Pierre  Charette,  and 
it  recalled  him  from  his  mental  grain  specula- 
tion. He  turned  in  his  chair  and  looked  at 
Billette  with  half-closed  eyes.  At  this  moment 
there  was  a  shuffling  of  feet  and  a  moving  of 
chairs  in  the  next  room.  Some  of  the  girls 
and  boys  of  the  village  had  come  in  to  see 
Euphrasie.  Presently,  madame,  glowing  with 
hospitality,  came  into  the  kitchen  for  more 
chairs. 

"  It  is  the  whole  village,"  she  explained. 
"  And  Joi  hiding  like  a  thief  !  Shame  upon 
him !  Take  these  chairs,  then,  and  cease  to 
be  a  stick.     Leave  dozing  to  the  gray  cat." 

Joi  Billette  took  the  chairs,  but  with  no 
good  grace.  He  was  not  himself.  He  placed 
them  around  the  room  mechanically,  and 
stood  in  the  midst  of  his  friends,  awkward 
and  ill  at  ease.  Some  wanted  to  laugh  at 
him,  while  others  tried  to  tease  him,  but  his 
air  of    preoccupation    restrained  them ;   they 


A   BELLE  OF  ST.    VALERIEN  139 

were  already  somewhat  subdued  by  the  pre- 
sence of  a  stranger.  In  this  diffident  com- 
pany Pettingill  sat  serene,  smiling  and  con- 
fident. He  was  even  patronizing.  When 
an  embarrassing  silence  was  about  to  fall  on 
all,  he  was  superior  to  circumstances. 

"  Rats  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Don't  set  here 
moping.     Can't  we  have  some  play-songs?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Euphrasie,  trying  to  under- 
stand, "  some  play-song,  —  yes." 

"  Something  like  '  Here  's  a  young  man  set 
down  to  sleep '  "  — 

"  Oh,  to  sleep  !     I  know,"  said  Euphrasie. 

" i  He  needs  a  young  girl  to  keep  him 
awake.'  " 

"Oh,  yes,  — to  kip  'im  wake!"  Then 
she  rattled  away  in  French  to  the  rest.  The 
result  was  that  all  the  young  men  chose  part- 
ners, except  Joi,  —  there  was  no  partner  for 
him  to  choose,  —  and  proceeded  to  prome- 
nade slowly  around  the  small  room,  singing 
as  they  went.  The  song  was  about  a  maiden 
and  her  bashful  lover,  and  the  clear  voice  of 
Euphrasie  carried  the  tune.  The  cavalier 
sees  his  sweetheart  laughing ;  then  runs  the 


sonff  : 


"  Qu'avez-vous,  belle  ?     Qu'avez-vous,  belle  ? 
Qu'avez-vous  a  taut  lire  ?  " 


140  A  BELLE   OF  ST.    VALERIEN 

Whereupon  the  girl  replies  :  — 

"  Je  ris  de  moi,  je  ris  cle  toi, 
De  nos  fortes  entreprises  : 
C'est  d'avoir  passe-  le  bois 
Sans  uu  petit  mot  me  dire  ! " 

The  maiden  is  going  away  from  the  lover, 
who  is  too  bashful  to  speak  the  little  word. 
She  is  supposed  to  be  waving  her  hand  in  the 
distance.     Then  the  lover  is  aroused. 

"  Revenez,  belle  !     Revenez,  belle  ! 
Je  vous  donnerai  cent  livres  !  " 

But  the  girl  does  n't  want  his  fortune.  She 
has  had  a  glimpse  of  a  larger  world. 

"  Ni  pour  un  cent,  ni  pour  deux  cent, 
Ni  pour  cinq  cent  mille  livres  : 
II  fallait  mange"  la  perdrix 
Taudis  qu'elle  etait  prise  !  " 

And  the  pretty  little  partridge  will  never 
come  back.     The  girl,  still  going,  cries  :  — 

"  La  perdrix  a  pris  sa  volee, 
Elle  se  mit  en  ville  ; 
Je  vois  mes  amants  promener 
Dans  le  pare  de  la  ville  ! " 

All  through  the  singing  Joi  Billette  kept 
his  eyes  on  Euphrasie,  and  he  thought  she 
was  singing  at  him.  The  motions  of  her 
pretty  head,  the  glances  of  her  bright  eyes, 
—  in  every  way  she  seemed  to  be  saying  that 


A  BELLE  OF  ST.    VALEBIEN  141 

she  would  not  return,  but  would  promenade 
with  other  lovers.  Joi  understood  it  so,  too, 
for  by  the  time  the  song  was  ended  he  had  dis- 
appeared, and  the  small  company  saw  him  no 
more  that  day.  But  they  heard  of  him,  — 
oh,  yes ! 

He  went  into  the  kitchen,  and  sat  with  his 
face  in  his  hands.  No  one  could  say  whether 
his  attitude  was  one  of  laziness  or  despair,  so 
little  do  we  know  of  what  is  going  on  before 
our  very  eyes.  For  a  while  he  sat  still  as 
death  ;  then  he  rose  and  went  about  the  room, 
searching  for  something.  On  the  wall  hung 
a  piece  of  looking-glass.  He  looked  into  it 
as  he  passed,  and  saw  that  his  face  was  very 
white.  He  shook  his  head ;  he  did  not  know 
the  man  that  looked  back  at  him  from  the 
glass.  He  went  about  the  room,  hunting  in 
the  corners,  on  the  shelves,  and  under  the 
pans.  At  last  a  long  knife  lay  under  his 
hand.  He  picked  it  up,  looked  at  it  curi- 
ously, and  hid  it  under  his  jacket.  Then  he 
seated  himself  again,  his  face  hid  in  his  hands, 
and  waited.  Euphrasie  came  for  a  drink  of 
water ;  he  knew  the  rustle  of  her  dress,  the 
sound  of  her  footsteps,  but  he  did  not  stir. 
She  looked  at  him  and  tossed  her  head.     She 


142  A  BELLE  OF  ST.    VALEBIEN 

said  to  herself,  "  Now  he  is  angry  ;  to-morrow 
he  will  feel  better."  He  sat  and  waited,  his 
face  in  his  hands.  Some  one  went  away,  — 
that  was  Helene  Joutras ;  he  knew  her  voice. 
One  by  one  they  all  went  away,  except  the 
serene  and  smiling  stranger.  Then,  too,  after 
a  while,  he  was  ready  to  go.  Euphrasie  went 
to  the  door  with  him.  Her  broken  English 
seemed  very  queer  to  Joi  Billette,  and  very 
beautiful,  too.  The  door  was  closed,  and 
then  Joi  heard  the  stranger's  feet  crunching 
in  the  snow.  He  rose  from  his  chair,  feeling 
strangely  oppressed.  He  was  so  weak  he  was 
compelled  to  steady  himself.  It  was  not 
fear ;  it  was  pity.  He  heard  Pettingill  going 
along  whistling  a  gay  tune,  and  he  pitied 
him.  But  what  was  pity  ?  There  are  other 
things  more  important  than  pity.  He  went 
out  at  the  back  door,  and  the  cold  air  stung 
his  face  and  made  him  feel  stronger. 

Once  out  of  the  gate,  he  pressed  forward 
rapidly.  Just  ahead  of  him  Pettingill  was 
sauntering  along,  still  whistling.  The  stran- 
ger was  in  no  hurry,  then  ?  So  much  the 
better.  Joi  Billette  was  so  intent  on  carry- 
ing out  the  purpose  he  had  formed  that  he 
did  not  hear  heavy  footsteps  behind  him,  nor 


A  BELLE  OF  ST.    VALERIEN  143 

did  he  hear  a  strong-  voice  call  his  name.  He 
had  eyes  and  ears  for  no  one  but  Pettingill. 
As  he  went  forward,  he  drew  the  knife  from 
beneath  his  jacket  and  held  it  firmly  in  his 
hand,  quickening  his  pace.  Pettingill' s  care- 
less swagger  whetted  his  anger.  The  wretch ! 
Would  he  come  here,  then,  and  lord  it  over 
the  village  ? 

Pettingill,  hearing  footsteps  behind  him, 
paused  and  looked  around.  He  saw  Joi  Bil- 
lette  coming  swiftly  towards  him,  followed  as 
swiftly  by  a  tall,  black-robed  figure.  Like  a 
flash  his  mind  recurred  to  the  stories  he  had 
read  of  Roman  Catholics,  and  now,  here 
before  his  eyes,  as  he  imagined,  was  an  emis- 
sary of  the  Pope  about  to  administer  disci- 
pline. 

"  Run,  buster  !  he  's  gainin'  on  you  !  "  he 
called  out  gayly.  He  had  no  opportunity  to 
say  more.  At  that  moment  Joi  Billette  seized 
him  by  the  arm  and  swung  him  around  vio- 
lently. 

"  Beast !  devil  !  "  the  Canadian  hissed 
through  his  clenched  teeth.  "  Take  that !  " 
He  made  an  effort  to  plunge  the  knife  into 
the  American,  but  a  powerful  hand  was  laid 
on  his  arm.     He  turned,  looked  into  the  eyes 


144  A  BELLE  OF  ST.    VALEBIEN 

of  the  frere  directeur  of  the  Maristes,  and 
then  sank  trembling  on  the  snow.  The  Ma- 
riste  stood  over  him,  tall  and  severe. 

"  What,  then,  have  I  taught  thee  to  assas- 
sinate ?  "  There  was  grief  in  his  voice  and 
supreme  pity. 

"  Say  !  "  exclaimed  Pettingill,  who  had 
been  too  much  astonished  to  speak,  "what 
kinder  game  is  he  up  to  ?  Ain't  he  off  his 
kerzip?  " 

"  Go  !  "  The  Mariste  waved  his  hand  im- 
periously. 

"  Come  off  !  "  Pettingill  spoke  roughly. 
"  Wait  till  I  give  you  a  pointer.  Don't  you 
let  that  chap  rush  after  me.  Because  if  you 
do  "  —  he  drew  a  shining  pistol  from  his 
overcoat  pocket  —  "I  '11  give  him  a  tetch  of 
the  United  States  that  '11  last  him." 

"  Go  !  "  the  Mariste  repeated. 

"So  long,"  said  Pettingill,  whereupon  he 
turned  on  his  heel  and  went  away. 

The  Mariste  lifted  Joi  Billette  to  his  feet, 
brushed  the  snow  from  his  clothes,  took  him 
by  the  hand,  and  led  him  back  the  way 
he  had  come.  Past  Charette's,  past  all  the 
houses,  they  went,  the  Mariste  still  holding 
Joi  by  the  hand.     At  the  end  of  the  street, 


"GO!"   THE   MARISTK   REPEATED 


A  BELLE  OF  ST.    VALEBIEN  145 

the  white  crosses  of  the  little  cemetery 
gleamed  almost  as  white  as  the  snow  piled 
up  on  the  graves.  Into  the  garden  of  the 
dead  they  went,  and  there  the  Mariste  led 
Joi  to  one  of  the  little  white  crosses.  In  the 
centre  of  the  cross  had  been  fixed  a  small 
frame,  and  in  this  frame  was  the  likeness  of 
a  young  woman,  a  souvenir  of  the  dead.  It 
was  a  common  tintype,  but  there  was  an  air 
of  nobility  about  it.  It  had  the  beauty  of 
youth  and  the  tenderness  of  maturity.  It 
was  the  picture  of  Joi  Billette's  mother.  He 
fell  on  his  knees  before  it,  and  sobbed  con- 
vulsively. The  Mariste  stood,  with  hat  off 
and  folded  arms,  his  black  hair  blown  about 
by  the  wind.  Aime  Joutras,  watching  from 
a  distance,  saw  the  two  emerge  from  the 
cemetery  and  go  into  the  church,  not  far 
away.     Then  he  saw  them  no  more. 

When  Pettingill  returned  to  the  little  au- 
berge,  he  found  Barie  still  there,  tasting  and 
testing  Chicoine's  la  p'tite  biere,  and  it  was 
not  long  before  he  was  seated  in  the  grizzled 
habitant's  sleigh,  on  his  way  to  Upton.  One 
day  passed,  then  two  days,  then  three.  Pet- 
tingill could  be  accounted  for,  —  he  had  gone 


146  A   BELLE  OF  ST.    VALERIEN 

away ;  but  where  was  Joi  Billette  ?  The 
times  were  not  so  gay  at  Charette's  as  before. 
Euphrasie  ceased  to  toss  her  head  and  forgot 
to  put  on  her  fine  airs.  She  was  continually 
looking  up  the  street  for  Joi,  but  no  Joi 
came.  She  went  to  see  Andre  Billette,  Joi's 
father,  but  Andre  looked  at  her  coldly  and 
shook  his  head.  He  had  no  information  to 
give.  Joi  was  of  age  :  he  could  take  care  of 
himself. 

"  You  know  where  he  is  ?  "  said  Euphrasie. 

"  I  know  where  I  am,  ma'm'selle,"  said 
Andre.     "  I  bother  nobody." 

There  was  no  comfort  for  the  girl  in  such 
talk  as  that.  Then  there  was  the  story  that 
Joutras  told  of  seeing  Joi  with  the  frere  di- 
recteur  of  the  Mariste  school.  To  the  school 
Euphrasie  went.  One  of  the  pupils  opened 
the  door,  and  in  a  little  while  the  frere  direc- 
teur  came.  He  was  very  grave,  but  there 
was  a  twinkle  of  fun  in  his  eyes  when  he  saw 
Euphrasie.  The  girl  was  excited  and  defiant. 
Her  face  was  very  white,  and  her  hands 
trembled.     She  made  no  salutation. 

"Where  is.  Joi  Billette?"  she  asked 
bluntly. 

The  Mariste  regarded  her  curiously. 


A  BELLE  OF  ST.    VALERIEN  147 

"  Why  do  you  come  to  me  for  Joi  Bil- 
lette  ? "  he  asked  gently.  "  If  he  is  here, 
why  disturb  him?  He  asks  to  see  no  one. 
He  is  content." 

"  I  ask  you,  where  is  Joi  Billette  ? "  the 
girl  repeated.  Her  attitude  was  almost 
threatening-. 

"  Why  come  to  me  ?  "  the  Mariste  insisted. 
"  What  ami?" 

"  For  you,"  exclaimed  Euphrasie,  "  I  do 
not  care  that !  "  She  raised  her  hand  and 
snapped  her  fingers.  "  Where  is  Joi  Bil- 
lette?" 

Her  voice  rang  through  the  hallway,  and 
at  that  moment  Joi  appeared  behind  the  Ma- 
riste, his  face  pale  and  his  eyes  full  of  won- 
der. When  Euphrasie  saw  him  she  turned 
away  from  the  door  and  began  to  weep.  Joi 
looked  at  the  Mariste  for  an  explanation,  but, 
without  waiting  for  it,  he  ran  to  Euphrasie, 
as  she  was  going  away,  and  threw  his  arms 
around  her. 

The  Mariste  nodded  his  head  approvingly, 
and  closed  the  door. 


THE   COMEDY  OF  WAR 

I 

ON    THE    UNION    SIDE 

Private  O'Halloran,  detailed  for  special 
duty  in  advance  of  the  picket  line,  sat  reclin- 
ing' against  a  huge  red  oak.  Within  reach 
lay  a  rifle  of  beautiful  workmanship.  In  one 
hand  he  held  a  blackened  brier -root  pipe, 
gazing;  on  it  with  an  air  of  mock  regret.  It 
had  been  his  companion  on  many  a  weary 
march  and  on  many  a  lonely  day,  when,  as 
now,  he  was  doing  duty  as  a  sharpshooter. 
But  it  was  not  much  of  a  companion  now. 
It  held  the  flavor,  but  not  the  fragrance,  of 
other  days.  It  was  empty,  and  so  was  O'Hal- 
loran's  tobacco-pouch.  It  was  nothing  to 
grumble  about,  but  the  big,  laughing  Irish- 
man liked  his  pipe,  especially  when  it  was 
full  of  tobacco.  The  words  of  an  old  song 
came  to  him,  and  he  hummed  them  to  him- 
self :  — 


THE  COMEDY  OF   WAR  149 

"  There  was  an  oulcl  man,  an'  he  had  a  wooden  leg, 
An'  he  had  no  terbacky,  nor  terbacky  could  he  beg  ; 
There  was  another  ould  man,  as  keen  as  a  fox, 
An'  he  always  had  terbacky  in  his  ould  terbacky  box. 

"  Sez  one  ould  man,  '  Will  yez  give  me  a  chew  ? ' 
Sez  the  other  ould  man,  '  I  '11  be  dommed  ef  I  do. 
Kape  away  from  them  gin-mills,  an'  save  up  yure  rocks, 
An'  ye  '11  always  have  terbacky  in  yer  ould  terbacky  box.' " 

What  with  the  singing  and  the  far-away 
thoughts  that  accompanied  the  song,  Private 
O'Halloran  failed  to  hear  footsteps  approach- 
ing until  they  sounded  quite  near. 

"  Halt !  "  he  cried,  seizing  his  rifle  and 
springing  to  his  feet.  The  newcomer  wore 
the  insignia  of  a  Federal  captain,  seeing 
which,  O'Halloran  lowered  his  weapon  and 
saluted.  "  Sure,  sor,  you  're  not  to  mind  me 
capers.  I  thought  the  inimy  had  me  com- 
plately  surrounded  —  I  did,  upon  me  sowl." 

"  And  I,"  said  the  captain,  laughing, 
"  thought  the  Johnnies  had  caught  me.  It 
is  a  pleasant  surprise.  You  are  O'Halloran 
of  the  Sharpshooters ;  I  have  heard  of  you 
—  a  gay  singer  and  a  great  fighter." 

"  Sure  it 's  not  for  me  to  say  that  same.  I 
sings  a  little  bechwane  times  for  to  kape  up 
me  sperits,  and  takes  me  chances,  right  and 
lift.     You  're  takin'  a  good  many  yourself, 


150  TUE   COMEDY  OF   WAR 

sor,  so  far  away  from  the  picket  line.  If  I 
make  no  mistake,  sor,  it  is  Captain  Fambrough 
I  'm  talkin'  to." 

"  That  is  my  name,"  the  captain  said. 

"  I  was  touchin'  elbows  wit'  you  at  Gettys- 
burgh,  sor." 

The  captain  looked  at  O'Halloran  again. 
"  Why,  certainly  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  You 
are  the  big  fellow  that  lifted  one  of  the 
Johnnies  over  the  stone  wall." 

"  By  the  slack  of  the  trousers.  I  am  that 
same,  sor.  He  was  nothin'  but  a  bit  of  a 
lad,  sor,  but  he  fought  right  up  to  the  end 
of  me  nose.  The  men  was  jabbin'  at  'im  wit' 
their  bay'nets,  so  I  sez  to  him,  says  I,  '  Come 
in  out  of  the  inclemency  of  the  weather,'  says 
I,  and  thin  I  lifted  him  over.  He  made  at 
me,  sor,  when  I  put  'im  down,  an'  it  took  two 
men  for  to  lead  'im  kindly  to  the  rear.  It 
was  a  warm  hour,  sor." 

As  O'Halloran  talked,  he  kept  his  eyes  far 
afield. 

"Sure,  sor,"  he  went  on,  "you  stand  too 
much  in  the  open.  They  had  one  muddle- 
head  on  that  post  yesterday  ;  they  '11  not  put 
another  there  to-day,  sor."  As  he  said  this, 
the  big  Irishman  seized   the  captain  by  the 


THE  COMEDY   OF   WAR  151 

arm  and  gave  him  a  sudden  jerk.  It  was  an 
unceremonious  proceeding,  but  a  very  timely 
one,  for  the  next  moment  the  sapling  against 
which  the  captain  had  been  lightly  leaning 
was  shattered  by  a  ball  from  the  Confederate 
side. 

"  'T  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,  sor,"  said 
O'Halloran  ;  "  I  know  'im  by  his  liandwritin'. 
They  had  a  muddlehead  there  yesterday,  sor. 
I  set  in  full  sight  of  'im,  an'  he  blazed  at  me 
twice ;  the  last  time  I  had  me  fist  above  me 
head,  an'  he  grazed  me  knuckles.  '  Bedad,' 
says  I,  '  you  're  no  good  in  your  place  ; '  an' 
when  he  showed  his  mug,  I  plugged  'im  where 
the  nose  says  howdy  to  the  eyebrows.  'Twas 
no  hurt  to  'im,  sor ;  if  he  seen  the  flash, 
'twas  as  much." 

To  the  left,  in  a  little  clearing,  was  a  com- 
fortable farmhouse.  Stacks  of  fodder  and 
straw  and  pens  of  corn  in  the  shuck  were 
ranged  around.  There  was  every  appearance 
of  prosperity,  but  no  sign  of  life,  save  two 
bluebirds,  the  pioneers  of  spring,  that  were 
fighting  around  the  martin  gourds,  preparing 
to  take  possession. 

"  There  's  where  I  was  born."  The  cap- 
tain pointed  to  the  farmhouse.  "  It  is  five 
years  since  I  have  seen  the  place." 


152  THE  COMEDY   OF    WAR 

u  You  don't  tell  me,  sor  !  I  see  in  the 
'  Hur'ld '  that  they  call  it  the  Civil  War,  but 
it 's  nothin'  but  oncivil,  sor,  for  to  fight  agin' 
your  ould  home." 

"  You  are  right,"  assented  the  captain. 
"  There 's  nothing  civil  about  war.  I  sup- 
pose the  old  house  has  long  been  deserted." 

"  Sure,  look  at  the  forage,  thin.  'T  is 
piled  up  as  nately  as  you  plaze.  Wait  till 
the  b'ys  git  at  it  !  Look  at  the  smoke  of 
the  chimbly.  Barrin'  the  jay-birds,  'tis  the 
peacefullest  sight  I  've  seen." 

"  My  people  are  gone,"  said  the  captain. 
"  My  father  was  a  Union  man.  I  would  n't 
be  surprised  to  hear  of  him  somewhere  at  the 
North.  The  day  that  I  was  eighteen  he  gave 
me  a  larruping  for  disobedience,  and  I  ran 
away." 

"  Don't  spake  of  it,  sor."  O'Halloran  held 
up  his  hands.  "  Many  's  the  time  I  've  had 
me  feelin's  hurted  wit'  a  bar'l  stave." 

"  That  was  in  1860,"  said  the  captain.  "  I 
was  too  proud  to  go  back  home,  but  when 
the  war  be^an  I  remembered  what  a  strong 
Union  man  my  father  was,  and  I  joined  the 
Union  army." 

"  'T  is  a  great  scheme  for  a  play,"  said  the 
big  Irishman  solemnly. 


THE  COMEDY  OF   WAR  153 

"  My  mother  was  dead,"  the  captain  went 
on,  "  my  oldest  sister  was  married,  and  my 
youngest  sister  was  at  school  in  Philadelphia, 
and  my  brother,  two  years  older  than  myself, 
made  life  miserable  for  me  in  trying  to  boss 
me. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  O'Halloran,  "don't  I 
know  that  same  ?  'T  is  meself  that 's  been 
along  there." 

Captain  Fambrough  looked  at  the  old  place, 
carefully  noting  the  outward  changes,  which 
were  comparatively  few.  He  noted,  too,  with 
the  eye  of  a  soldier,  that  when  the  impend- 
ing conflict  took  place  between  the  forces 
then  facing  each  other,  there  would  be  a 
sharp  struggle  for  the  knoll  on  which  the 
house  stood ;  and  he  thought  it  was  a  curi- 
ous feat  for  his  mind  to  perform,  to  regard 
the  old  home  where  he  had  been  both  happy 
and  miserable  as  a  strategic  point  of  battle. 
Private  O'Halloran  had  no  such  memories  to 
please  or  to  vex  him.  To  the  extent  of  his 
opportunities  he  was  a  man  of  business.  He 
took  a  piece  of  white  cloth  from  his  pocket 
and  hung  it  on  the  broken  sapling. 

"  I  '11  see,  sor,  if  yon  chap  is  in  the  grocery 
business." 


154  THE  COMEDY  OF   WAR 

As  lie  turned  away,  there  was  a  puff  of 
smoke  on  the  farther  hill,  a  crackling  report, 
and  the  hanging  cloth  jumped  as  though  it 
were  alive. 

"  Faith,  it 's  him,  sor  !  "  exclaimed  O'Hal- 
loran,  "  an'  he  's  in  a  mighty  hurry."  Where- 
upon the  big  Irishman  brushed  a  pile  of 
leaves  from  an  oil-cloth  strapped  together  in 
the  semblance  of  a  knapsack. 

"  What  have  you  there  ?  "  asked  Captain 
Fambrough. 

"  Sure,  't  is  me  grocery  store,  sor.  Coffee, 
tay,  an'  sugar.  Faith,  I  '11  make  the  divvle's 
mouth  water  like  a  baby  cuttin'  his  stomach 
tathe.  Would  ye  mind  comin'  along,  sor,  for 
to  kape  me  from  swindlin'  the  Johnny  out  of 
all  his  belongin's  ?  " 


II 

ON    THE    CONFEDERATE    SIDE 

Three  men  sat  in  a  gully  that  had  once 
been  a  hillside  ditch.  Their  uniforms  were 
various,  the  result  of  accident  and  capture. 
One  of  them  wore  a  very  fine  blue  overcoat 
which  was  in   queer  contrast  to   his  ragged 


THE  COMEDY   OF   WAR  155 

pantaloons.  This  was  Lieutenant  Clopton, 
who  had  charge  of  the  picket  line.  Another 
had  on  the  uniform  of  an  artilleryman,  and 
his  left  arm  was  in  a  sling.  He  had  come 
out  of  the  hospital  to  do  duty  as  a  guide. 
This  was  Private  John  Fambrough.  The 
third  had  on  no  uniform  at  all,  but  was 
dressed  in  plain  citizen's  clothes,  much  the 
worse  for  wear.  This  was  Jack  Kilpatrick, 
scout  and  sharpshooter,  —  Happy  Jack,  as  he 
was  called. 

How  long  since  the  gully  had  been  a  ditch 
it  would  be  impossible  to  say,  but  it  must 
have  been  a  good  many  years,  for  the  pines 
had  grown  into  stout  trees,  and  here  and 
there  a  black-jack  loomed  up  vigorously. 

"  Don't  git  too  permiscus  around  here," 
said  Happy  Jack,  as  the  others  were  moving 
about.  "  This  ain't  no  fancy  spot."  He 
eased  himself  upward  on  his  elbow,  and  made 
a  swift  but  careful  survey  of  the  woodland 
vista  that  led  to  the  Federal  lines.  Then 
he  shook  down  the  breech  of  his  rifle,  and 
slipped  a  long  cartridge  into  its  place.  "You 
see  that  big  poplar  over  yonder?  Well,  un- 
der that  tree  there 's  a  man,  leastways  he 
ought  to  be  there,  because  he  's  always  hang- 
in'  around  in  front  of  me." 


156  THE  COMEDY  OF   WAR 

"  Why  don't  you  nail  him  ?  "  asked  Fam- 
brough. 

"  Bosh  !  Why  don't  he  nail  me  ?  It 's 
because  he  can't  do  it.  Well,  that 's  the  rea- 
son I  don't  nail  him.  You  know  what  hap- 
pened yesterday,  don't  you?  You  saw  that 
elegant  lookin'  chap  that  came  out  to  take 
my  place,  did  n't  you  ?  Did  you  see  him 
when  he  went  back  ?  " 

Lieutenant  Clopton  replied  with  a  little 
grimace,  but  Fambrough  said  never  a  word. 
He  only  looked  at  Kilpatrick  with  inquiring 
eyes. 

"  Why,  he  was  the  nicest  lookin'  man  in 
the  army  —  hair  combed,  clothes  brushed, 
and  ring-s  on  his  fino-ers.  He  was  all  the 
way  from  New  'leans,  with  a  silver-mounted 
rifle  and  a  globe  sight." 

"A  which?"  asked  Fambrougdi. 

"  A  globe  sight.  Set  down  on  yourself 
a  little  further,  sonny,"  said  Happy  Jack ; 
"  your  head  's  too  high.  I  says  to  him,  says 
I,  '  Friend,  you  are  goin'  where  you  '11  have 
to  strip  that  doll's  step-ladder  off'n  your  gun, 
an'  come  down  to  business,'  says  I.  I  says, 
says  I,  '  You  may  have  to  face  a  red-headed 
flannel-mouthed  Irishman,  and  you  don't  want 


THE  COMEDY  OF   WAR  157 

to  look  at  him  through  all  that  machinery/ 

155 
. 

"  What  did  he  say  ?  "  Fambrough  asked. 

"  He  said,  1 1  '11  git  him.'  Now,  how  did 
he  git  him  ?  Why,  he  come  down  here, 
lammed  aloose  a  time  or  two,  and  then  hung 
his  head  over  the  edge  of  the  gully  there, 
with  a  ball  right  spang  betwixt  his  eyes.  I 
went  behind  the  picket  line  to  get  a  wink  of 
sleep,  but  I  had  n't  more  'n  curled  up  in  the 
broom-sage  before  I  heard  that  chap  a-bangin' 
away.  Then  come  the  reply  like  this "  — 
Happy  Jack  snapped  his  fingers  ;  "  and  then 
I  went  to  sleep  waitin'  for  the  rej'inder." 

Kilpatrick  paused,  and  looked  steadily  in 
the  direction  of  the  poplar. 

"  Well,  dog  my  cats  !  Yonder  's  a  chap 
standin'  right  out  in  front  of  me.  It  ain't 
the  Mickey,  neither.  I  '11  see  what  he  's  up 
to."  He  raised  his  rifle  with  a  light  swinging 
movement,  chirruped  to  it  as  though  it  were 
a  horse  or  a  little  child,  and  in  another  mo- 
ment the  deadly  business  of  war  would  have 
been  resumed,  but  Fambrough  laid  his  hand 
on  the  sharpshooter's  arm. 

"  Wait,"  he  said.  "  That  may  be  my  old 
man  wandering  around  out  there.     Don't  be 


158  THE  COMEDY  OF   WAR 

too  quick  on  trigger.  I  ain't  got  but  one 
old  man." 

"  Shucks!"  exclaimed  Kilpatrick  pettishly; 
"  you  reckon  I  don't  know  your  old  man  ? 
He  's  big  in  the  body,  an'  wobbly  in  his  legs. 
You  've  spiled  a  mighty  purty  shot.  I  believe 
in  my  soul  that  chap  was  a  colonel,  an'  he 
might  'a'  been  a  general.  Now  that 's 
funny." 

"  What 's  funny?  "  asked  Fambrough. 

"  Why,  that  chap.  He  '11  never  know  you 
saved  him,  an'  if  he  know'd  it  he  would  n't 
thank  you.  I  'd  'a'  put  a  hole  right  through 
his  gizzard.     Now  he  's  behind  the  poplar." 

"  It 's  luck,"  Lieutenant  Clopton  suggested. 

"  Maybe,"  said  Kilpatrick.  "  Yonder  he 
is  ag'in.  Luck  won't  save  him  this  time." 
He  raised  his  rifle,  glanced  down  the  barrel, 
and  pulled  the  trigger.  Simultaneously  with 
the  report  an  expression  of  disgust  passed 
over  his  face,  and  with  an  oath  he  struck  the 
ground  with  his  fist. 

"  Don't  tell  me  you  missed  him,"  said 
Clopton. 

"  Miss  what  ?  "  exclaimed  Kilpatrick  scorn- 
fully. "  If  he  ain't  drunk,  somebody  pulled 
him  out  of  the  way." 


THE  COMEDY  OF  WAR  159 

"  I  told  you  it  was  luck,"  commented  Clop- 
ton. 

"  Shucks  !  don't  tell  me.  Luck  's  like 
ligktnin'.  She  never  hits  twice  in  the  same 
place." 

Kilpatrick  sank  back  in  the  gully  and  gave 
himself  up  to  ruminating.  He  leaned  on  his 
elbows  and  pulled  up  little  tufts  of  grass  and 
weeds  growing  here  and  there.  Lieutenant 
Clopton,  looking  across  towards  the  poplar, 
suddenly  reached  for  the  sharpshooter's  rifle, 
but  Kilpatrick  placed  his  hand  on  it  jealously. 

"  Give  me  the  gun.  Yonder  's  a  Yank  in 
full  view." 

Kilpatrick,  still  holding  his  rifle,  raised 
himself  and  looked. 

"  Why,  he  's  hanging  out  a  flag  of  truce," 
said  Clopton.    "  What  does  the  fellow  mean  ?  " 

"  It 's  a  message,"  said  Kilpatrick,  "  an' 
here  's  the  answer."  With  that  he  raised  his 
rifle,  dropped  it  gently  in  the  palm  of  his  left 
hand,  and  fired. 

"  You  saw  the  hankcher  jump,  did  n't 
you?"  he  exclaimed.  "Well,  that  lets  us 
out.  That  's  my  Mickey.  He  wants  to- 
bacco, and  I  want  coffee  an'  tea.  Come, 
watch  me  swap  him  out  of  his  eye  teeth." 
\ 


160  THE  COMEDY  OF   WAR 

Then  Kilpatrick  went  to  a  clump  of  broom- 
sedge  and  drew  forth  a  wallet  containing 
several  pounds  of  prepared  smoking  tobacco 
and  a  bundle  of  plug  tobacco,  and  in  a  few 
moments  the  trio  were  picking  their  way 
through  the  underwood  towards  the  open. 


Ill 

ON    NEUTRAL    GROUND 

Matters  were  getting  critical  for  Squire 
Fambrough.  He  had  vowed  and  declared 
that  he  would  never  be  a  refugee,  but  he  had 
a  responsibility  on  his  hands  that  he  had  not 
counted  on.  That  responsibility  was  his 
daughter  Julia,  twenty -two  years  old,  and  as 
obstinate  as  her  father.  The  Squire  had  sent 
off  his  son's  wife  and  her  children,  together 
with  as  many  negroes  as  had  refused  to  go 
into  the  Union  lines.  He  ha§l  expected  his 
daughter  to  go  at  the  same  time,  but  when 
the  time  arrived,  the  fair  Julia  showed  that 
she  had  a  mind  of  her  own.  She  made  no 
scene,  she  did  not  go  into  hysterics ;  but 
when  everything  was  ready,  she  asked  her 
father  if   he  was  going.     He  said  he  would 


THE  COMEDY  OF   WAR  161 

follow  along  after  a  while.  She  called  to  a 
negro,  and  made  him  take  her  trunks  and 
band-boxes  from  the  wagon  and  carry  them 
into  the  house,  while  Squire  Fambrough 
stood  scratching  his  head. 

"  Why  don't  you  make  her  come  ? "  his 
daughter-in-law  asked,  somewhat  sharply. 

"  Well,  Susannah,"  the  Squire  remarked, 
"I  ain't  been  a  jestice  of  the  peace  and  a 
married  man,  off  and  on  for  forty  year,  with- 
out findin'  out  when  to  fool  with  the  wimen 
sek  an'  when  not  to  fool  wi'  'em." 

"  I  'd  make  her  come,"  said  the  daughter- 
in-law. 

"I  give  you  lief,  Susannah,  freely  an' 
fully.  Lay  your  baby  some'rs  wher'  it  won't 
git  run  over,  an'  take  off  your  surplus  har- 
ness, an'  go  an'  fetch  her  out  of  the  house  an' 
put  her  in  the  buggy." 

But  the  daughter-in-law  treated  the  cour- 
teous invitation  with  proper  scorn,  and  the 
small  caravan  moved  off,  leaving  the  fair 
Julia  and  her  father  in  possession  of  the 
premises.  According  to  human  understand- 
ing, the  refugees  got  off  just  in  the  nick  of 
time.  A  day  or  two  afterwards,  the  Union 
army,    figuratively    speaking,    marched    up, 


162  THE  COMEDY  OF   WAR 

looked  over  Squire  Fambrough's  front  pal- 
ings, and  then  fell  back  to  reflect  over  the 
situation.  Shortly  afterwards  the  Confeder- 
ate army  marched  up,  looked  over  the  Squire's 
back  palings,  and  also  fell  back  to  reflect. 
Evidently  the  situation  was  one  to  justify 
reflection,  for  presently  both  armies  fell  back 
still  farther.  These  movements  were  so  cour- 
teous and  discreet  —  were  such  a  colossal 
display  of  etiquette  —  that  war  seemed  to  be 
out  of  the  question.  Of  course  there  were 
the  conservative  pickets,  the  thoughtful  ve- 
dettes, and  the  careful  sharpshooters,  ready 
to  occasion  a  little  bloodshed,  accidentally  or 
intentionally.  But  by  far  the  most  boister- 
ously ferocious  appendages  of  the  twro  armies 
were  the  two  brass  bands.  They  wrere  con- 
tinually challenging  each  other,  beginning 
early  in  the  morning  and  ending  late  in  the 
afternoon ;  one  firing  off  "  Dixie,"  and  the 
other  "  Yankee  Doodle."  It  was  "  Yankee 
Doodle,  howdy  do  ?  "  and  "  Doodle-doodle, 
Dixie,  too,"  like  two  chanticleers  challenging 
each  other  afar  off. 

This  was  the  situation  as  it  appeared  to 
Squire  Fambrough  and  his  daughter.  On 
this  particular  morning  the  sun  was  shining 


THE  COMEDY  OF   WAR  163 

brightly,  and  the  birds  were  fluttering"  joy- 
ously in  the  budding  trees.  Miss  Julia  had 
brought  her  book  out  into  the  grove  of  ven- 
erable oaks  which  was  the  chief  beauty  of 
the  place,  and  had  seated  herself  on  a  rustic 
bench  that  was  built  around  one  of  the  trees. 
Just  as  she  had  become  interested,  she  heard 
a  rifle-shot.  She  moved  uneasily,  but  fell  to 
reading  again,  and  was  apparently  absorbed 
in  the  book,  when  she  heard  another  shot. 
Then  she  threw  the  book  down  and  rose  to 
her  feet,  making  a  very  pretty  centrepiece  in 
the  woodland  settino-. 

o 

"  Oh  !  what  is  the  matter  with  every- 
thing ?  "  she  exclaimed.  "  There 's  the 
shooting  again  !  How  can  I  read  books  and 
sit  quietly  here  while  the  soldiers  are  prepar- 
ing to  fight  ?  Oh,  me  !  I  don't  know  what 
to  do !  If  there  should  be  a  battle  here,  I 
don't  know  what  would  become  of  us." 

Julia,  in  her  despair,  was  fair  to  look 
upon.  Her  gown  of  striped  homespun  stuff, 
simply  made,  set  off  to  admiration  her  strong 
but  supple  figure.  Excitement  added  a  new 
lustre  to  her  eye  and  gave  a  heightened  color 
to  the  rose  that  bloomed  on  her  cheeks.  She 
stood  a  moment  as  if  listening,  and  then  a 


164  THE  COMEDY   OF   WAR 

faint  smile  showed  on  her  lips.  She  heard 
her  father  calling  :  — 

"  Jule  !  Jnle  !  0  Jule  !  " 

"  Here  I  am,  father  !  "  she  cried.  "  What 
is  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  the  Lord  he'p  my  soul  !  I  've 
been  huntin'  for  you  high  an'  low.  Did  you 
hear  that  shootin'  ?  I  'lowed  may  be  you  'd 
been  took  prisoner  an'  carried  bodaciously 
off.  Did  n't  I  hear  you  talkin'  to  some- 
body ?  " 

Squire  Fambrough  pulled  off  his  hat  and 
scratched  his  head.  His  face,  set  in  a  fringe 
of  gray  beard,  was  kindly  and  full  of  humor, 
but  it  contained  not  a  few  of  the  hard  lines 
of  experience. 

"  No,  father,"  said  Julia,  in  reply  to  the 
squire's  question.  "  I  was  only  talking  to 
myself." 

"  Jest  makin'  a  speech,  eh  ?  Well,  I  don't 
blame  you,  honey.  I  'm  a  great  mind  to 
jump  out  here  in  the  clearin'  an'  yell  out  my 
sentiments  so  that  both  sides  can  hear  'em." 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter,  father  ?  " 

"  I  'm  mad,  honey  !  I  'm  jest  nachally 
stirred  up,  —  dog  my  cats  ef  I  ain't !  Along 
at  fust   I   did    hope    there  would  n't    be   no 


THE  COMEDY   OF   WAR  165 

fightin'  in  this  neighborhood,  but  now  I  jest 
want  to  see  them  two  blamed  armies  liofht 
into  one  another,  tooth  and  toe-nail." 

"  Why,  father  !  "  Julia  made  a  pretty 
gesture  of  dismay.    "  How  can  you  talk  so  ?  " 

"  Half  of  my  niggers  is  gone,"  said  Squire 
Fambrough  ;  "  one  side  has  got  my  hosses, 
and  t'  other  side  has  stole  my  cattle.  The 
Yankees  has  grabbed  my  grist  mill,  an'  the 
Confeds  has  laid  holt  of  my  corncrib.  One 
army  is  squattin'  in  my  tater  patch,  an(J 
t'  other  one  is  roostin'  in  my  cow  pastur'.  Do 
you  reckon  I  was  born  to  set  down  here  an' 
put  up  wi'  that  kind  of  business  ?  " 

"  But,  father,  what  can  you  do  ?  How 
can  you  help  yourself?  For  heaven's  sake, 
let 's  go  away  from  here  !  " 

"  Great  Moses,  Jule  !  Have  you  gone  an' 
lost  what  little  bit  of  common  sense  you  was 
born  with  ?  Do  you  reckon  I  'm  a-goin'  to 
be  a-refugeein'  an'  a-skeedaddlin'  across  the 
country  like  a  skeer'd  rabbit  at  my  time  of 
life  ?  I  hain't  afeared  of  nary  two  armies 
they  can  find  room  for  on  these  hills !  Hain't 
I  got  one  son  on  one  side  an'  another  son  on 
t'  other  side  ?  Much  good  they  are  doin', 
too.     If  they  'd  'a'  felt   like  me  they  'd  'a'  fit 


166  THE   COMEDY   OF   WAR 

both  sides.  Do  you  reckon  I  'm  a-gwine  to 
be  drove  off'n  the  place  where  I  was  born, 
an'  where  your  granpappy  was  born,  an' 
where  your  mother  lies  buried  ?  No, 
honey !  " 

"  But,  father,  you  know  we  can't  stay 
here.     Suppose  there  should  be  a  battle?" 

"  Come,  honey  !  come  !  "  There  was  a 
touch  of  petulance  in  the  old  man's  tone. 
"  Don't  get  me  flustrated.  I  told  you  to  go 
when  John's  wife  an'  the  children  went.  By 
this  time  you  'd  'a'  been  out  of  hearin'  of  the 
war. 

"  But,  father,  how  could  I  go  and  leave 
you  here  all  by  yourself  ? "  The  girl  laid 
her  hand  on  the  squire's  shoulder  caress- 
ingly. 

"  No,"  exclaimed  the  squire  angrily  ; 
"  stay  you  would,  stay  you  did,  an'  here  you 
are  ! 

"  Yes,  and  now  I  want  to  go  away,  and  I 
want  you  to  go  with  me.  All  the  horses  are 
not  taken,  and  the  spring  wagon  and  the 
barouche  are  here." 

"  Don't  come  a-pesterin'  me,  honey  !  I  'm 
pestered  enough  as  it  is.  Lord,  if  I  had  the 
big  men  here  what  started  the  war,  I  'd  take 


THE  COMEDY  OF   WAR  167 

'era  an'  butt  their  cussed  heads  together  tell 
you  would  n't  know  'em  from  a  lot  of  spiled 
squashes." 

"  Now,  don't  get  angry  and  say  bad  words, 
father." 

"  I  can't  help  it,  Jule ;  I  jest  can't  help  it. 
When  the  fuss  was  a-brewin'  I  sot  down  an' 
wrote  to  Jeems  Buchanan,  and  told  him,  jest 
as  plain  as  the  words  could  be  put  on  paper, 
that  war  was  boun'  to  come  if  he  did  n't  look 
sharp  ;  an'  then  when  old  Buck  dropped  out, 
I  sot  down  an'  wrote  to  Abe  Lincoln  an'  told 
him  that  coercion  would  n't  work  worth  a 
cent,  but  conciliation  "  — 

"  Wait,  father  !  "  Julia  held  up  her  pretty 
hand.     "  I  hear  some  one  calling-.     Listen  !  " 

Not  far  away  they  heard  the  voice  of  a 
negro.  "  Marse  Dave  Henry  !  0  Marse 
Dave  Henry  !  " 

"  Hello  L  Who  the  nation  are  you  hol- 
lerin'  at  ? "  said  Squire  Fambrough  as  a 
youngish-looking  negro  man  came  in  view. 
"  An'  where  did  you  come  from,  an'  where 
are  you  goin'  ?  " 

"  Howdy,    mistiss,  —  howdy,    marster  !  " 
The  negro  took  off  his  hat  as  he  came  up. 

"  What 's  your  name  ?  "  asked  the  squire. 


168  THE  COMEDY  OF   WAR 

"  I  'm  name  Tuck,  sub.  None  er  you  all 
ain't  seed  nothin'  er  Marse  "  — 

"  Who  do  you  belong  to  ?  " 

"  I  b'longs  ter  de  Cloptons  down  dar  in 
Georgy,  sub.  None  er  you-all  ain't  seed 
nothin'  "  — 

"  What  are  you  doin'  here  ? "  demanded 
Squire  Fambrough,  somewhat  angrily. 
"  Don't  you  know  you  are  liable  to  get 
killed  any  minute  ?  Ain't  you  makin'  your 
way  to  the  Yankee  army  ?  " 

11  No,  sub."  The  negro  spoke  with  unc- 
tion. "  I  'm  des  a-huntin'  my  young  marster, 
suh.  He  name  Dave  Henry  Clopton.  Dat 
what  we  call  him,  —  Marse  Dave  Henry. 
None  er  you-all  ain't  seed  'im,  is  you  ?  " 

"Jule,"  said  the  squire,  rubbing  his  nose 
thoughtfully,  "  ain't  that  the  name  of  the 
chap  that  used  to  hang  around  here  before 
the  Yankees  got  too  close  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  Lieutenant  Clopton,  fa- 
ther? "  asked  Julia,  showing  some  confusion. 

"  Yessum."  Tuck  grinned  and  rubbed 
his  hands  together.  "  Marse  Dave  Henry  is 
sholy  a  lieutender  in  de  company,  an'  mistiss 
she  say  he  'd  a  done  been  a  giner'l  ef  dey 
wa'n't  so  much  enviousness  in  de  army." 


THE  COMEDY  OF   WAR  169 

"I  saw  him  this  morning,  —  I  mean"  — 
Julia  blushed  and  hesitated.  "  I  mean,  I 
heard  him  talking  out  here  in  the  grove." 

"Who  was  he  talking  to,  Jule  ? "  The 
squire  put  the  question  calmly  and  deliber- 
ately. 

There  was  a  little  pause.  Julia,  still  blush- 
ing, adjusted  an  imaginary  hairpin.  The 
negro  looked  sheepishly  from  one  to  the 
other.     The  squire  repeated  his  question. 

"  Who  was  he  talking  to,  Jule  ?  " 

"  Nobody  but  me,"  said  the  young  lady, 
growing  redder.  Her  embarrassment  was 
not  lessened  by  an  involuntary  "  eh  —  eh," 
from  the  negro.  Squire  Fambrough  raised 
his  eyes  heavenwards  and  allowed  both  his 
heavy  hands  to  drop  helplessly  by  his  side. 

"  What  was  he  talkin'  about  ?  "  The  old 
man  spoke  with  apparent  humility. 

"  N-o-t-h-i-n-g,"  said  Julia  demurely,  look- 
ing at  her  pink  finger-nails.  "  He  just  asked 
me  if  I  thought  it  would  rain,  and  I  told  him 
I  did  n't  know  ;  and  then  he  said  the  spring 
was  coming  on  very  rapidly,  and  I  said, '  Yes, 
I  thought  it  was.'  And  then  he  had  found 
a  bunch  of  violets  and  asked  me  if  I  would 
accept  them,  and  I  said,  '  Thank  you.'  " 


170  THE  COMEDY   OF   WAR 

"  Land  of  the  livin'  Moses  ! "  exclaimed 
Squire  Fambrough,  lifting  his  hands  above 
his  head  and  allowing  them  to  fall  heavily 
again.     "  And  they  call  this  war  !  " 

"  Yessum  !  "  The  negro's  tone  was  trium- 
phant. "  Dat  sholy  wuz  Marse  Dave  Henry. 
War  er  no  war,  dat  wuz  him.  Dat  des  de 
wray  he  goes  'mongst  de  ladies.  He  gi'  'urn 
candy  yit,  let  'lone  flowers.  Shoo !  You 
can't  tell  me  nothin'  't  all  'bout  Marse  Dave 
Henry." 

"  What  are  you  wanderin'  'round  here  in 
the  woods  for  ?  "  asked  the  squire.  His  tone 
was  somewhat  severe.  "  Did  anybody  tell 
you  he  was  here  ?  " 

"  No,  suh  !  "  replied  Tuck.  "  Dey  tol'  me 
back  dar  at  de  camps  dat  I  'd  fin'  'im  out  on 
de  picket  line,  an'  when  I  got  dar  dey  tol' 
me  he  wuz  out  dis  a-way,  whar  dey  wuz  some 
sharpshootin'  gwine  on,  but  I  ain't  foun'  'im 
yit." 

"  Ain't  you  been  with  him  all  the  time  ?  " 
The  squire  was  disposed  to  treat  the  negro 
as  a  witness  for  the  defense. 

"  Lor,  no,  suh  !  I  des  now  come  right 
straight  f um  Georgy.  Mistiss,  —  she  Marse 
Dave    Henry's  ma,  —  she    hear   talk   dat  de 


THE  COMEDY  OF   WAR  171 

solyers  ain't  got  no  cloze  fer  ter  w'ar  an'  no 
vittles  fer  ter  eat,  skacely,  an'  she  tuck  'n 
made  me  come  an'  fetch  'im  a  box  full  er 
duds  an'  er  box  full  er  vittles.  She  put  cake 
in  dar,  yit,  'kaze  I  smelt  it  whiles  I  wuz  han- 
dlin'  de  box.  De  boxes,  dey  er  dar  at  de 
camp,  an'  here  me,  but  wharbouts  is  Marse 
Dave  Henry  ?  Not  ter  be  a-hidin'  fum  some- 
body, he  de  hardest  white  man  ter  fin'  what 
I  ever  laid  eyes  on.  I  speck  I  better  be 
knockin'  'long.  Good-by,  marster  ;  good-by, 
young  mistiss.  Ef  I  don'  fin'  Marse  Dave 
Henry  nowheres,  I  '11  know  whar  ter  come  an' 
watch  fer  'im." 

The  squire  watched  the  negro  disappear  in 
the  woods,  and  then  turned  to  his  daughter. 
To  his  surprise,  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears ; 
but  before  he  could  make  any  comment,  or 
ask  any  question,  he  heard  the  noise  of  tramp- 
ing feet  in  the  woods,  and  presently  saw  two 
Union  soldiers  approaching.  Almost  imme- 
diately Julia  called  his  attention  to  three 
soldiers  coming  from  the  Confederate  side. 

"  I  believe  in  my  soul  we  're  surrounded 
by  both  armies,"  remarked  the  squire  dryly. 
"  But  don't  git  skeer'd,  honey.  I  'm  goin'  to 
see  what  they  're  trespassin'  on  my  premises 
for." 


172  THE  COMEDY  OF  WAR 

IV 
COMMERCE    AND    SENTIMENT 

"  Upon  me  sowl,"  said  O'Halloran,  as  he 
and  Captain  Fambrough  went  forward,  the 
big  Irishman  leading  the  way,  "  I  'm  afeard 
I  'm  tollin'  you  into  a  trap." 

"  How?  "  asked  the  captain. 

"  Why,  there  's  three  of  the  Johnnies 
comin',  sor,  an'  the  ould  man  an'  the  gurrul 
make  five." 

"  Halt !  "  said  the  captain,  using  the  word 
by  force  of  habit.  The  two  paused,  and  the 
captain  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance. 
Then  he  turned  to  the  big  Irishman  with  a 
queer  look  on  his  face. 

"What  is  it,  sor?" 

"  I  'm  in  for  it  now.  That  is  my  father 
yonder,  and  the  young  lady  is  my  sister." 

"  The  Divvle  an'  Tom  Walker  !  "  exclaimed 
O'Halloran.  "  'T  is  quite  a  family  rayimion, 
sor. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  to  make  myself 
known  or  not.  What  could  have  possessed 
them  to  stay  here  ?  I  '11  see  whether  they 
know  me."     As  they  went  forward,  the  cap- 


THE  COMEDY  OF   WAR  173 

tain  plucked  O'Halloran  by  the  sleeve.  "  I  '11 
be  shot  if  the  Johnny  with  his  arm  in  the 
sling  is  n't  my  brother." 

"  I  was  expectin'  it,  sor,"  said  the  big 
Irishman,  giving  matters  a  humorous  turn. 
61  Soon  the  cousins  will  be  poppin'  out  from 
under  the  bushes." 

By  this  time  the  two  were  near  enough  to 
the  approaching  Confederates  to  carry  on  a 
conversation  by  lifting  their  voices  a  little. 

"  Hello,  Johnny,"  said  O'Halloran. 

"  Hello,  Yank,"  replied  Kilpatrick. 

"  What 's  the  countersign,  Johnny  ?  " 

"  Tobacco.  What  is  it  on  your  side, 
Yank  ?  " 

"  Tay  an'  coffee,  Johnny." 

"  You  are  mighty  right,"  Kilpatrick  ex- 
claimed.    "  Stack  your  arms  agin  a  tree." 

"  The  same  to  you,"  said  O'Halloran. 

The  Irishman,  using  his  foot  as  a  broom, 
cleared  the  dead  leaves  and  twigs  from  a 
little  space  of  ground,  where  he  deposited  his 
bundle,  and  Kilpatrick  did  the  same.  John 
Fambrough,  the  wounded  Confederate,  went 
forward  to  greet  his  father  and  sister,  and 
Lieutenant  Clopton  went  with  him.  The 
squire  was  not  in  a  good  humor. 


174  THE   COMEDY  OF   WAR 

"  I  tell  you  what,  John,"  be  said  to  his 
son,  "  I  don't  like  to  be  barborin'  nary  side. 
It 's  agin'  my  principles.  I  don't  like  tins 
colloguin'  an'  palaverin'  betwixt  folks  that 
ought  to  be  by  good  rights  a-knockin'  one  an- 
other on  the  head.  If  they  want  to  collogue 
an'  palaver,  why  don't  they  go  soni'ers 
else?" 

The  squire's  son  tried  to  explain,  but  the 
old  gentleman  hooted  at  the  explanation. 
"  Come  on,  Jule,  let  's  go  and  see  what 
they  're  up  to." 

As  they  approached,  the  Irishman  glanced 
at  Captain  Fambrough,  and  saw  that  he  had 
turned  away,  cap  in  hand,  to  hide  his  emotion. 

"  You  're  just  in  time,"  the  Irishman  said 
to  Squire  Fambrough  in  a  bantering  tone, 
"  to  watch  the  contending  armies.  This  mite 
of  a  Johnny  will  swindle  the  Government,  if 
I  don't  kape  me  eye  on  him." 

"  Is  this  what  you  call  war  ?  "  the  Squire 
inquired  sarcastically.  "  Who  axed  you  to 
come  trespassin'  on  my  land  ?  " 

"  Oh,  we  '11  put  the  leaves  back  where  we 
found  them,"  said  Kilpatrick,  "  if  we  have 
to  git  a  furlough." 

"  Right  you  are  !  "  said  the  Irishman. 


THE   COMEDY  OF   WAR  175 

"  It  is  just  a  little  trading  frolic  among  the 
boys !  "  Captain  Fambrough  turned  to  the 
old  man  with  a  courteous  bow.  "  They  will 
do  no  harm.     I  '11  answer  for  that." 

"  Well,  I  '11  tell  you  how  I  feel  about 
it !  "  Squire  Fambrough  exclaimed  with  some 
warmth.  "  I  'm  in  here  betwixt  the  hostiles. 
They  ain't  nobody  here  but  me  an'  my  daugh- 
ter. We  don't  pester  nobody,  an'  we  don't 
want  nobody  to  pester  us.  One  of  my  sons 
is  in  the  Union  army,  I  hear  tell,  an'  the 
other  is  in  the  Confederate  army  when  he  ain't 
in  the  hospital.  These  boys,  you  see,  found 
their  old  daddy  a-straddle  of  the  fence,  an' 
one  clomb  down  one  leg  on  the  Union  side, 
an'  t'  other  one  clomb  down  t'  other  lesr  on 
the  Confederate  side." 

"  That  is  what  I  call  an  interesting  situa- 
tion," said  the  captain,  drawing  a  long  breath. 
"  Perhaps  I  have  seen  your  Union  son." 

"Maybe  so,  maybe  so,"  assented  the  squire. 

"  Perhaps  you  have  seen  him  yourself  since 
the  war  beo-an  ?  " 

Before  the  squire  could  make  any  reply, 
Julia  rushed  at  the  captain  and  threw  her 
arms  around  his  neck,  crying,  "  0  brother 
George,  I  know  you  !  " 


176  THE  COMEDY   OF   WAR 

The  squire  seemed  to  be  dazed  by  this  dis- 
covery. He  went  towards  the  captain  slowly. 
The  tears  streamed  down  his  face  and  the 
hand  he  held  out  trembled. 

"  George,"  he  exclaimed,  "  God  A' mighty 
knows  I  'm  glad  to  see  you !  " 

O'Halloran  and  Kilpatrick  had  paused  in 
the  midst  of  their  traffic  to  watch  this  scene, 
but  when  they  saw  the  gray-haired  old  man 
crying  and  hugging  his  son,  and  the  young 
girl  clinging  to  the  two,  they  were  confused. 
O'Halloran  turned  and  kicked  his  bundles. 

"  Take  all  the  tay  and  coffee,  you  bloody 
booger !  Just  give  me  a  pipeful  of  the 
weed." 

Kilpatrick  shook  his  fist  at  the  big  Irish- 
man. 

"  Take  the  darned  tobacco,  you  redmouthed 
Mickey !  What  do  I  want  with  your  tea 
and  coffee  ? "  Then  both  started  to  go  a 
little  way  into  the  woods,  Lieutenant  ClojJton 
following.  The  captain  called  them  back, 
but  they  would  n't  accept  the  invitation. 

"  We  are  just  turnin'  our  backs,  sor,  while 
you  hold  a  family  orgie,"  said  O'Halloran. 
"  Me  an'  this  measly  Johnny  will  just  go  an' 
complate  the  transaction  of  swappin'." 


THE  COMEDY  OF   WAR  177 

At  this  moment  Tuck  reappeared  on  the 
scene.  Seeing  his  young  master,  he  stopped 
still  and  looked  at  him,  and  then  broke  out 
into  loud  complaints. 

"  Marse  Dave  Henry,  whar  de  nam  er  good- 
ness you  been  ?  You  better  come  read  dish 
yer  letter  what  yo'  ma  writ  you.  I  'm  gwine 
tell  mistiss  she  come  mighty  nigh  losin'  a 
likely  nigger,  an'  she  '11  rake  you  over  de 
coals,  mon." 

"  Why,  howdy,  Tuck,"  exclaimed  Lieuten- 
ant Clopton.     "  Ain't  you  glad  to  see  me?" 

"  Yasser,  I  speck  I  is."  The  negro  spoke 
in  a  querulous  and  somewhat  doubtful  tone, 
as  he  produced  a  letter  from  the  lining  of  his 
hat.  "  But  I  'd  'a'  been  a  heap  gladder  ef  I 
had  n't  mighty  nigh  traipsed  all  de  gladness 
out  'n  me." 

Young  Clopton  took  the  letter  and  read  it 
with  a  smile  on  his  lips  and  a  dimness  in  his 
eyes.  The  negro,  left  to  himself,  had  his 
attention  attracted  by  the  coffee  and  tobacco 
lying  exposed  on  the  ground.  He  looked  at 
the  display,  scratching  his  head. 

"  Boss,  is  dat  sho  miff  coffee?  " 

"It  is  that  same,"  said  O'Halloran. 

"  De  ginnywine  ole-time  coffee  ?  "  insisted 
the  negro. 


178  THE  COMEDY  OF   WAR 

"  'T  is  nothin'  else,  simlin-head." 

"  Marse  Dave  Henry,"  the  negro  yelled, 
"  run  here  an'  look  at  dish  yer  ginnywine 
coffee  !  Dey  's  nuff  coffee  dar  fer  ter  make 
mistiss  happy  de  balance  er  her  days.  Some 
done  spill  out !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Boss,  kin 
I  have  dem  what 's  on  de  groun'  ?  " 

"  Take  'em,"  said  O'Halloran,  "  an'  much 
good  may  they  do  you." 

"  One,  two,  th'ee,  fo',  fi',  sick,  sev'm." 
The  negro  counted  the  grains  as  he  picked 
them  up.  "0  Marse  Dave  Henry,  run  here 
an'  look  !  I  got  sev'm  grains  er  ginnywine 
coffee.     I  'm  gwine  take  um  ter  mistiss." 

The  Irishman  regarded  the  negro  with 
curiosity.  Then  taking  the  dead  branch  of  a 
tree  he  drew  a  line  several  yards  in  length 
between  himself  and  Kilpatrick. 

"  D  'ye  see  that  line  there  ?"  he  said  to  the 
negro. 

" Dat  ar  mark?   Oh,  yasser,  I  sees  de  mark." 

"  Very  well.  On  that  side  of  the  line  you 
are  in  slavery  —  on  this  side  the  line  you  are 
free." 

"  Who  ?     Me  ?  " 

"  Who  else  but  you  ?  " 

"  I  been  hear  talk  er  freedom,  but  I  ain't 


THE  COMEDY  OF   WAR  179 

seed  'er  yit,  an'  I  dunner  how  she  feel."  The 
negro  scratched  his  head  and  grinned  expec- 
tantly. 

"  'T  is  as  I  tell  yon,"  said  the  Irishman. 

"  I  b'lieve  I  '11  step  'cross  an'  see  how  she 
feel."  The  negro  stepped  over  the  line,  and 
walked  up  and  down  as  if  to  test  the  matter 
physically.  "  'T  ain't  needer  no  hotter  ner 
no  colder  on  dis  side  dan  what  'tis  on  dat," 
he  remarked.  Then  he  cried  out  to  his  young 
master :  "  Look  at  me,  Marse  Dave  Henry ; 
I  'm  free  now." 

"  All  right."  The  young  man  waved  his 
hand  without  taking  his  eyes  from  the  letter 
he  was  reading. 

"  He  take  it  mos'  too  easy  fer  ter  suit  me," 
said  the  negro.  Then  he  called  out  to  his 
young  master  again  :  "  0  Marse  Dave  Henry ! 
Don't  you  tell  mistiss  dat  I  been  free,  kaze 
she  '11  take  a  bresh-broom  an'  run  me  off'n  de 
place  when  I  go  back  home." 

V 

THE    CURTAIN    FALLS 

Squire  Fambrough  insisted  that  his  son 
should  go  to  the  house  and  look  it  over  for 


180  THE  COMEDY  OF   WAR 

the  sake  of  old  times,  and  young  Clopton 
went  along-  to  keep  Miss  Julia  company. 
O'Halloran,  Kilpatrick,  and  the  negro  stayed 
where  they  were  —  the  white  men  smoking 
their  pipes,  and  the  negro  chewing  the  first 
"  mannyfac  "  tobacco  he  had  seen  in  many  a 
day. 

The  others  were  not  gone  long.  As  they 
came  back,  a  courier  was  seen  riding  through 
the  woods  at  break-neck  speed,  going  from 
the  Union  lines  to  those  of  the  Confederates, 
and  carrying  a  white  flag.  Kilpatrick  hailed 
him,  and  he  drew  rein  long  enough  to  cry 
out,  as  he  waved  his  flag :  — 

"  Lee  has  surrendered  !  " 

"  I  was  looking  out  for  it,"  said  Kilpatrick, 
"  but  dang  me  if  I  had  n't  rather  somebody 
had  a-shot  me  right  spang  in  the  gizzard." 

Lieutenant  Clopton  took  out  his  pocket- 
knife  and  beoran  to  whittle  a  stick.  John 
Fambrough  turned  away,  and  his  sister  leaned 
her  hands  on  his  shoulder  and  began  to  weep. 
Squire  Fambrough  rubbed  his  chin  thought- 
fully and  sighed. 

"It  had  to  be,  father,"  the  captain  said. 
"  It 's  a  piece  of  news  that  brings  peace  to 
the  land." 


THE  COMEDY   OF   WAR  181 

"  Oh,  yes,  but  it  leaves  us  flat.  No  money, 
and  nothing  to  make  a  crop  with." 

"  I  have  government  bonds  that  will  be 
worth  a  hundred  thousand  dollars.  The  in- 
terest will  keep  us  comfortably." 

"  For  my  part,"  said  Clopton,  "  I  have  no- 
thing but  this  free  nigger." 

"  You  b'lieve  de  half  er  dat,"  spoke  up  the 
free  nigger.  "  Mistiss  been  savin'  her  cotton 
craps,  an'  ef  she  got  one  bale  she  got  two 
hundred." 

The  captain  figured  a  moment.  "  They 
will  bring  more  than  a  hundred  thousand 
dollars." 

"I  have  me  two  arrums,"  said  O'Halloran. 

"  I  've  got  a  mighty  fine  pack  of  fox- 
hounds," remarked  Kilpatrick  with  real  pride. 

There  was  a  pause  in  the  conversation.  In 
the  distance  could  be  heard  the  shouting  of 
the  Union  soldiers  and  the  band  with  its 
"Yankee  Doodle,  how  d'y-do  ?  "  Suddenly 
Clopton  turned  to  Captain  Fambrough  :  — 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  how  many  troops  have 
you  got  over  there  —  fighting  men  ?  " 

The  captain  laughed.  Then  he  put  his 
hand  to  his  mouth  and  said  in  a  stage 
whisper :  — 


182  THE  COMEDY  OF  WAR 

"  Five  companies." 

"  Well,  dang  my  hide  !  "  exclaimed  Kil- 
patrick. 

"  What  is  your  fighting  force  ?  "  Captain 
Fambrouodi  asked. 

"  Four  companies,"  said  Clopton. 

"  Think  o'  that,  sir  !  "  cried  the  Irishman  ; 
"  an'  me  out  there  defendin'  meself  ag'in  a 
whole  army." 

"  More  than  that,"  said  Clopton,  "  our 
colonel  is  a  Connecticut  man." 

"  Shake  !  "  the  captain  exclaimed.  "  My 
colonel  is  a  Virginian." 

"  Lord  'a'  mercy  !  Lord  'a'  mercy !  "  It 
was  Squire  Fambrough  who  spoke.  "  I  'm 
a-goin'  off  some'rs  an'  ontangle  the  tangle 
we  've  got  into." 

Soon  the  small  company  separated.  The 
squire  went  a  short  distance  towards  the 
Union  army  with  his  new-found  son.  Kil- 
patrick  and  the  negro  went  trudging  back  to 
the  Confederate  camp,  while  Clopton  lingered 
awhile,  saying  something  of  great  importance 
to  the  fair  Julia  and  himself. 

What  they  said  was  commonj)lace,  even  tri- 
fling ;  what  they  meant  carried  their  minds 
and  their  hearts  high  above  all  ordinary  mat- 


THE  COMEDY  OF  WAR  183 

ters ;  lifted  them,  indeed,  into  the  region  of 
poetry  and  romance  —  lifted  and  held  them 
there  for  one  brief,  blissful  half  hour.  Their 
questions  and  their  answers,  heavy  with  doubt, 
or  light  with  shy  hope,  were  such  as  swarm 
in  Love's  convoy  whether  he  precedes  or  fol- 
lows comedy  or  tragedy.  They  flourish  in 
the  thunders  of  war  as  serenely  as  in  the  sun- 
shine of  peace. 


A  BOLD   DESERTER 


The  war  was  n't  much  of  a  bother  to  Hills- 
borough, for  the  town  was  remote  from  the 
field  of  operations.  Occasionally  news  would 
come  that  made  the  women  cry  out  and  the 
old  men  weep,  but  the  intervals  were  long 
between  these  episodes,  and  to  all  appear- 
ances affairs  moved  forward  as  serenely  as 
ever. 

This  was  during  the  first  year  or  two  of 
the  struggle.  Then  came  the  Impressment 
Law,  which  created  bead  feelings  and  caused 
a  good  deal  of  grumbling.  Following  this 
came  the  Conscript  Act,  which  made  matters 
much  worse,  especially  when  strange  men 
were  sent  to  enforce  it.  This  disturbed  the 
serenity  of  Hillsborough  very  seriously. 

Nevertheless,  Hillsborough  could  have  put 
up  with  the  Conscript  Act  but  for  one  event 
that  stirred  the  little  community  from  centre 
to  circumference.     The  conscript  officers  had 


A  BOLD  DESERTER  185 

not  been  in  the  town  a  week  before  they 
pounced  upon  little  Billy  Cochran,  the  sole 
support  of  his  widowed  mother,  who  was 
known  throughout  that  region  as  Aunt  Sally. 
Little  Billy  himself  was  a  puzzle  to  the  more 
thoughtful  people.  He  was  so  simple  and 
innocent-minded,  so  ready  to  do  for  others 
what  he  would  n't  do  for  himself,  that  some 
said  he  was  a  half-wit,  while  others  contended 
that  he  would  have  sense  enough  if  his  heart 
was  n't  so  bi<£. 

But  everybody  liked  little  Billy  —  for  his 
mother's  sake,  if  not  for  his  own,  for  Aunt 
Sally  was,  indeed,  a  good  Samaritan.  She 
seemed  to  know  by  instinct  where  trouble 
and  sickness  and  suffering  were  to  be  found, 
and  there,  too,  she  was  to  be  found.  High 
or  low,  rich  or  poor,  she  passed  none  by. 
And,  though  she  was  as  simple  and  as  in- 
nocent-minded as  little  Billy,  these  qualities 
seemed  to  fit  her  better  than  they  did  her 
awkward  and  bashful  boy. 

Aunt  Sally  and  little  Billy  were  both  as 
industrious  as  the  day  was  long,  yet  they 
made  but  a  precarious  living  on  then  little 
patch  of  ground,  —  a  bale  or  two  of  cotton, 
that  did  n't  bring  a  good  price,  and  a  little  bit 


186  A  BOLD  DESERTER 

of  garden  truck,  which,  with  a  few  chickens 
and  eggs,  they  brought  to  town  occasionally 
in  a  rickety  one-horse  wagon.  Aunt  Sally 
would  take  no  pay  for  nursing  the  sick,  no 
matter  how  much  of  her  time  was  taken  up, 
but  she  supplemented  the  meagre  income 
they  got  from  the  one-horse  farm  by  mak- 
ing quilts,  and  counterpanes,  and  bedspreads, 
and  by  taking  in  weaving,  being  very  expert 
at  the  loom. 

As  may  be  supposed,  Aunt  Sally  and  little 
Billy  did  n't  wear  fine  clothes  nor  put  on  any 
airs.  Living  in  middle  Georgia  (the  most 
democratic  region,  socially,  in  the  world), 
they  had  no  need  for  either  the  one  or  the 
other.  They  made  a  bare  living,  and  were 
tolerably  satisfied  with  that. 

One  day,  shortly  after  the  conscript  officer 
had  established  his  headquarters  in  Hillsbor- 
ough, Aunt  Sally  and  little  Billy  drove  into 
town  with  a  few  dozen  eggs  and  three  or 
four  chickens  to  sell.  The  conscript  officer, 
sitting  on  the  veranda  of  the  tavern,  noticed 
that  little  Billy  was  a  well-grown  lad,  and 
kept  his  eye  on  him,  as  the  rickety,  one-horse 
wagon  came  through  the  public  square. 

There  were  two   or  three  loungers  sitting 


A  BOLD  DESERTER  187 

on  the  veranda,  including  Major  Goolsby. 
One  of  them  tapped  the  major  on  the  shoul- 
der and  pointed  to  little  Billy  with  his  fore- 
finger and  to  the  conscript  officer  with  his 
thumb.  The  major  nodded  gravely  once  or 
twice,  and  presently  hitched  his  chair  closer 
to  the  conscript  officer. 

"  You  ain't  a-bagging  much  game  in  these 
parts,  I  reckon,"  said  the  major,  addressing 
the  officer,  with  half-closed  eyes. 

"  Business  is  not  very  good,"  replied  the 
other,  with  a  chuckle,  "but  we  manage  to 
pick  up  a  few  stragglers  now  and  then. 
Yonder 's  a  chap  now"  —  pointing  to  little 
Billy  —  "that  looks  like  he  would  be  an  orna- 
ment to  the  rear-guard  in  an  engagement." 
The  officer  was  a  big,  rough-looking  man, 
and  seemed  to  find  his  present  duties  very 
agreeable. 

"  Do  you  mean  little  Billy  Cochran  ?  "  in- 
quired the  major. 

"  I  don't  know  his  name,"  said  the  officer. 
"  I  mean  that  chap  riding  in  the  chariot  with 
the  fat  woman." 

"  That  boy,"  remarked  the  major  with  an 
emphasis  that  caused  the  conscript  officer  to 
regard  him  with  surprise,  "  is  the  sole  support 


188  A   BOLD   DESERTER 

of  his  mother.  He  's  all  she  's  got  to  make 
her  crop." 

"  May  be  so,"  the  officer  said,  "  but  the 
law  makes  no  provision  for  cases  of  that 
kind." 

"  You  said,  '  May  be  so,' "  suggested  the 
major.  "  Do  you  mean  to  doubt  my  word?" 
His  voice  was  soft  as  the  notes  of  a  flute. 

"  Why,  certainly  not  !  "  exclaimed  the  offi- 
cer, flushing  a  little. 

The  major  made  no  further  remark,  but 
sat  bolt  upright  in  his  chair.  The  rickety 
wagon  drove  to  the  tavern  door,  and  little 
Billy  got  out,  a  basket  of  eggs  in  one  hand 
and  the  chickens  in  the  other.  He  went  into 
the  tavern,  and  while  he  was  gone,  Aunt 
Sally  passed  the  time  of  day  with  the  major 
and  the  rest  of  her  acquaintances  on  the 
veranda. 

Evidently  little  Billy  had  no  difficulty  in 
disposing  of  his  eggs  and  chickens,  for  he 
soon  came  out  smiling.  The  officer  arose  as 
little  Billy  appeared  in  the  door,  and  so  did 
Major  Goolsby.  The  loungers  nudged  one 
another  in  a  gleeful  way.  As  little  Billy 
came  out,  the  conscript  officer  drew  a  for- 
midable-looking memorandum-book  from  his 


A  BOLD  DESERTER  189 

pocket  and  tapped  the  young  man  on  the 
shoulder.  Little  Billy  looked  around  in  sur- 
prise, the  blood  mounted  to  his  face,  and  he 
laughed  sheepishly. 

"  What  is  your  name?"  the  officer  asked, 
poising  his  pencil. 

"  William  Henry  Harrison  Cochran,"  re- 
plied little  Billy. 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  " 

"  Twenty,  April  gone." 

"  Report  at  my  office,  under  the  Temper- 
ance Hall,  next  Wednesday  morning,  the  day 
after  to-morrow.  The  army  needs  your  ser- 
vices." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  go  to  the  war  ? " 
asked  little  Billy,  a  quaver  in  his  voice. 

"  Yes,"  the  officer  replied.  "  You  fall 
under  the  conscript  law." 

"  What  '11  mammy  do  ?  " 

"  Really,  I  don't  know.  The  Confederacy 
needs  you  worse  than  your  mammy  does  just 
now." 

Little  Billy  hung  his  head  and  walked  to 
the  rickety  wagon. 

"  Mind,"  said  the  officer,  "  Wednesday 
morning  at  ten  o'clock.  I  don't  want  to 
send  after  you." 


190  A  BOLD  DESERTER 

"  Why,  what  in  the  round  world  is  the 
matter,  honey  ?  "  Aunt  Sally  inquired,  see- 
ing- the  downcast  look  of  her  son. 

Little  Billy  simply  shook  his  head.  He 
could  not  have  uttered  a  word  then  had  his 
life  depended  on  it. 

"  Git  up,  Beck  !  "  exclaimed  Aunt  Sally, 
slapping  her  old  mule  with  the  rope  reins. 

Major  Goolsby  watched  the  mother  and 
son  for  a  few  moments  as  they  drove  back 
across  the  public  square.  His  lip  quivered 
as  he  remembered  how,  years  before,  Aunt 
Sally  had  nursed  his  dead  wife.  He  turned 
to  the  conscript  officer  and  straightened  him- 
self up. 

"  Mister  "  —  his  voice  was  soft,  sweet,  and 
insinuating  —  "  Mister,  how  many  of  your 
kind  are  loafing  around  in  the  South,  pick- 
ing up  the  mainstay  of  widows  ?  " 

"  As  many  as  are  necessary,  sir,"  replied 
the  officer. 

"  '  As  many  as  are  necessary,  sir/  "  said 
the  major,  turning  to  his  acquaintances  and 
mimicking  the  tones  of  the  officer.  "  Boys, 
that 's  what  they  call  statistics  —  the  exact 
figures.  Well,  sir,  if  there 's  one  for  every 
town  in  the  Confederacy,  there  's  more  than 


A   BOLD  DESERTER  191 

a  regiment  of  'em.  Don't  you  reckon  I'm 
about  right  in  my  figures  ?  " 

"  I  could  n't  say,"  replied  the  officer,  in  an 
indifferent  way.  He  saw  that  Major  Goolsby 
was  angry,  but  he  did  n't  know  what  the 
major's  anger  meant.  "  I  could  n't  say.  I£ 
all  of  them  have  enlisted  as  many  men  as  I 
have,  the  army  will  be  a  great  deal  larger  in 
the  course  of  the  next  three  months." 

"Don't  you  think  you  could  do  a  great 
deal  more  damage  to  the  Yankees,  if  you  had 
the  will,  than  that  boy  you  've  just  served 
notice  on  ?  "  asked  the  major,  with  a  little 
more  asperity  than  he  had  yet  shown.  "  Why 
don't  you  get  a  basket  and  catch  tomtits,  and 
send  'em  on  to  the  front  ?  The  woods  are 
full  of  'em." 

"  Now,  if  you  '11  tell  me  how  all  this  con- 
cerns you,"  said  the  officer,  bristling  up,  "I  '11 
be  much  obliged  to  you." 

The  major  took  one  step  forward  and, 
with  a  movement  quick  as  lightning,  slapped 
the  officer  in  the  face  with  his  open  hand. 
"  That 's  for  little  Billy  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

The  officer  sprang  back  and  placed  his 
hand  under  his  coat  as  if  to  draw  a  pistol. 
The  major  whipped  out  a  big  morocco  pocket- 


192  A  BOLD  DESERTER 

book,  fumbled  about  in  it  a  moment,  and 
then  threw  five  twenty-dollar  gold  pieces  at 
the  feet  of  the  officer. 

"  I  '11  send  that  to  your  family,"  he  said, 
"  if  you  '11  pull  your  pistol  out  where  I  can 
see  it. 

But  the  officer  by  this  time  had  taken  a 
sober  second  thought,  and  he  turned  away 
from  the  major  and  went  to  his  office  across 
the  public  square.  The  older  citizens  of 
Hillsborough  applauded  his  coolness  and  dis- 
cretion, and  one  of  them  told  him  confiden- 
tially that  if  he  had  drawn  his  pistol  when 
Major  Goolsby  begged  him  to  he  would  have 
been  a  dead  man  before  he  could  have  pulled 
the  hammer  back. 

II 

Of  course,  everybody  sympathized  with 
Aunt  Sally,  and  their  sympathy  added  to  her 
grief,  for  she  was  a  tender-hearted  woman. 
Moreover,  when  she  found  herself  the  object 
of  so  much  condolence,  she  naturally  con- 
cluded that  her  trouble  was  a  great  deal 
worse  than  she  had  any  idea  of,  and  she  sat 
in  her  humble  home  and  wept,  and,  like 
Rachel,  refused  to  be  comforted. 


A  BOLD  DESERTER  193 

But  the  situation  was  not  nearly  so  bad 
as  Aunt  Sally  thought  it  was,  or  as  Major 
Goolsby  expected  it  would  be.  The  major 
himself  sent  her  a  little  negro  girl  to  keep 
her  company,  and  the  neighbors  for  miles 
around  contended  with  one  another  in  their 
efforts  to  make  her  comfortable.  Not  a  day 
passed,  except  Sundays,  that  Miss  Mary,  the 
major's  daughter,  did  n't  drive  out  to  Aunt 
Sally's  little  place  and  spend  an  hour  or  two 
with  her.  Miss  Mary  was  eighteen,  as  pretty 
as  a  peach,  and  as  full  of  fun  as  an  egg  is  of 
meat.  She  was  a  brunette  with  blue  eyes, 
and  although  they  were  laughing  eyes,  they 
could  look  very  sad  and  tender  when  occasion 
called  for  it. 

She  made  herself  very  useful  to  Aunt 
Sally.  She  read  to  her  the  letters  that  little 
Billy  sent  back  from  the  camp  of  instruction 
at  Loudersville,  and  answered  them  at  Aunt 
Sally's  dictation.  In  this  way  she  came  to 
feel  that  she  knew  little  Billy  better  than  any 
one  else  except  his  mother.  She  was  sur- 
prised to  find  that,  although  little  Billy  had 
had  few  advantages  in  the  way  of  schooling, 
he  could  write  a  beautiful  letter.  She  took 
the   fact   home   to   her   innocent   bosom  and 


194  A  BOLD  DESERTER 

wondered  how  it  could  be  that  this  country 
lad  had  the  knack  of  putting  himself  into  his 
letters  along  with  so  many  other  things  that 
were  interesting.  She  was  touched,  too,  by 
the  love  for  his  mother  that  shone  through 
every  line  he  wrote.  Over  and  over  again, 
he  called  her  his  dear  mammy  and  tried  to 
comfort  her;  and  sometimes  he  spoke  of  Miss 
Mary,  and  he  was  so  deft  in  expressing  his 
gratitude  to  her  that  the  young  lady  blushed 
and  trembled  lest  some  one  else  was  writing 
little  Billy's  letters,  as  she  was  writing  his 
mother's. 

And  then,  somehow,  she  never  knew  how, 
his  face  came  back  to  her  memory  and  planted 
itself  in  her  mind  and  remained  there.  Little 
Billy  was  no  longer  the  green,  awkward,  and 
ungainly  country  boy,  peddling  the  scanty 
fruits  of  his  poverty  about  the  village,  but  a 
hero,  who  had  no  thought  for  anybody  or 
anything  except  his  dear  old  mammy. 

As  the  cold  weather  came  on,  little  Billy 
wrote  that  he  would  feel  a  great  deal  more 
comfortable  in  the  mind  if  he  knew  where 
he  could  get  a  thick  suit  of  clothes  and  a 
heavy  pair  of  shoes.  But  he  begged  his  dear 
mammy  not  to  worry  about  that,  for  he  had 


A  BOLD  DESERTER  195 

no  doubt  the  clothes  and  shoes  would  be 
forthcoming  when  he  needed  them  most. 
Miss  Mary  skipped  this  part  of  the  letter 
when  she  was  reading  it  aloud  to  Aunt  Sally, 
but  it  was  n't  long"  before  the  clothes  were 
made,  with  the  aid  and  under  the  direction 
of  little  Billy's  mother ;  and  the  shoes  were 
bought,  costing  Major  Goolsby  a  pretty  round 
sum  in  Confederate  currency.  Moreover,  Miss 
Mary  baked  a  fruit  cake  with  her  own  hands, 
and  this  was  to  be  put  in  the  box  with  the 
clothes  and  shoes. 

The  next  thing  was  to  find  out  if  anybody 
from  Hillsborough  or  from  the  country  side 
was  going  to  the  camp  of  instruction,  where 
little  Billy's  headquarters  were.  But  right 
in  the  midst  of  expectation  and  preparation 
Aunt  Sally  fell  ill.  She  had  never  reconciled 
herself  to  her  separation  from  little  Billy. 
Until  the  conscript  law  tore  him  away  from 
her  side  she  had  never  been  parted  from  him 
a  day  since  the  Lord  sent  him  to  her  arms. 

The  strain  was  too  much  for  the  motherly 
heart  to  bear.  Aunt  Sally  gradually  pined 
away,  though  she  tried  hard  to  be  cheerful, 
and,  at  last,  just  before  little  Billy's  Christ- 
mas box  was  to  be  sent,  she  took  to  her  bed 


196  A  BOLD  DESERTER 

and  lay  there  as  helpless  as  a  child.  The 
doctor  came  and  prescribed,  but  little  Billy- 
was  the  only  medicine  that  would  do  Aunt 
Sally  any  good.  So  she  kept  to  her  bed,  grow- 
ing weaker  and  weaker,  in  spite  of  everything 
that  the  doctor  and  the  neighbors  could  do. 

And  at  last,  when  an  opportunity  came  to 
forward  the  box,  Miss  Mary  wrote  a  note  and 
pinned  it  where  it  could  be  seen  the  first 
thing.  She  began  it  with  "  Dear  Little 
Billy,"  but  this  seemed  too  familiar,  and 
she  began  it  with  "  Mr.  Cochran."  She  told 
him  that  his  dear  mammy  was  very  ill,  and 
if  he  wanted  to  see  her  he  would  do  well  to 
come  home  at  once.  It  was  a  very  pretty 
letter,  brief,  simple,  and  sympathetic. 

This  duty  done,  Miss  Mary  turned  her  at- 
tention to  nursing  Aunt  Sally,  and,  except 
at  night,  was  never  absent  from  her  bedside 
more  than  an  hour  at  a  time. 

Ill 

When  little  Billy  arrived  at  the  camp  of 
instruction,  the  first  person  on  whom  his  eye 
fell  was  Private  Chadwick.  Simultaneously 
the  eye  of  Private  Chadwick  fell  on  little 
Billy.     Mr.   Chadwick   was    something  of    a 


A  BOLD  DESERTER  197 

humorist  in  his  way,  and  a  rough  one,  as  the 
raw  conscripts  found  out  to  their  cost.  A 
heartless  jest  rose  to  his  lips,  but  something 
in  little  Billy's  face  —  an  expression  of  lone- 
liness, perhaps  —  stayed  it.  In  another  mo- 
ment Private  Chad  wick's  hand  fell  on  little 
Billy's  shoulder,  and  it  was  a  friendly  hand. 

"  Where  from  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Close  about  Hillsborough,"  little  Billy 
answered. 

"  I  reckon  you  know  the  Tripps  and  the 
Littles  ?  " 

"  Mighty  well,"    said  little  Billy. 

"  What  name  ?  " 

"  Cochran." 

"How  old?" 

"  Twenty,  last  April  gone." 

"  You  don't  look  like  you  're  fitten  to  do 
much  soldierin',"  suggested  Private  Chad- 
wick. 

"  Oh,  I  'm  tough,"  said  little  Billy,  laugh- 
ing, though  he  had  a  big  lump  in  his  throat. 

"  Come  with  me,  buddy,"  remarked  the  old 
soldier,  smiling.  "  If  I  'm  ever  to  keep  a 
tavern,  I  reckon  I  might  as  well  begin  with 
you  as  a  boarder." 

And  so,  for  the  time  at  least,  little  Billy 


198  A  BOLD  DESERTER 

was  installed  in  Private  Chad  wick's  tent, 
much  to  the  surprise  of  those  who  knew  the 
peculiarities  of  the  man.  The  camp  was  in 
charge  of  Captain  Mosely,  who  was  recover- 
ing from  a  wound,  and  he  had  selected  his 
old  comrade,  Private  Chadwick,  as  his  drill- 
master,  —  a  curious  selection  it  seemed  to  be 
to  those  who  did  n't  know  the  man,  but  the 
truth  was  that  Private  Chadwick  knew  as 
much  about  tactics  as  any  West  Pointer,  and 
had  the  knack,  too,  of  imparting  what  he 
knew,  even  if  he  had  to  use  his  belt-strap  to 
emphasize  his  remarks. 

The  upshot  of  the  matter  was  that  little 
Billy  went  to  Private  Chadwick' s  tent  and 
remained  there.  He  and  the  private  became 
inseparable  companions  when  neither  was  on 
duty,  and  in  these  hours  of  leisure  little  Billy 
learned  as  much  about  tactics  as  he  did  from 
the  actual  practice  of  drilling.  He  seemed  to 
take  to  the  business  naturally,  and  far  out- 
stripped even  the  men  who  had  been  drilling 
twice  a  day  for  three  months.  Naturally, 
therefore,  Private  Chadwick  was  very  proud 
of  his  pupil,  and  frequently  called  Captain 
Mosely's  attention  to  little  Billy's  proficiency. 

Over  and  often  during  the  pleasant  days  of 


A   BOLD   DESERTER  199 

November,  Private  Cbadwick  could  be  seen 
sitting  in  front  of  their  tent  engaged  in  ear- 
nest conversation,  little  Billy  leaning  bis  face 
on  bis  bands,  and  Private  Cbadwick  making 
fantastic  figures  in  the  sand  with  the  point  of 
his  bayonet.  On  such  occasions  little  Billy 
would  be  talking  about  his  dear  old  mammy, 
and  about  Miss  Mary,  and,  although  Private 
Cbadwick  was  something  of  a  joker,  in  his 
way,  he  never  could  see  anything  to  laugh  at 
in  little  Billy's  devotion  to  his  mother,  or  in 
his  innocent  regard  for  Miss  Mary  Goolsby. 
Somehow  it  carried  the  private  back  to  his 
own  boyhood  days,  and  he  listened  to  the  lad 
with  a  sympathy  that  was  as  quick  and  as 
delicate  as  a  woman's. 

About  the  middle  of  December,  little 
Billy's  box  came.  He  carried  it  to  Private 
Chadwick's  tent  in  great  glee,  and  opened  it 
at  once. 

He  had  said  to  himself  as  he  went  along 
that  he  was  sure  there  was  something  nice  in 
the  box,  and  he  hoped  to  find  Mr.  Cbadwick 
either  in  the  tent  or  close  by ;  but  the  drill- 
master  was  engaged  just  then  in  making  a 
refractory  conscript  mark  time  in  the  guard 
tent  by  jabbing  a  bayonet  at  his  toes. 


200  A  BOLD  DESERTER 

So,  for  the  moment,  little  Billy  had  his 
precious  box  all  to  himself.  He  opened  it 
and  found  the  letter  that  Miss  Mary  had 
pinned  to  the  clothes.     It  ran  thus  :  — 

Mr.  Cochran,  —  Aunt  Sally  is  very  ill 
now  and  has  been  ill  for  some  time.  We  are 
afraid  that  you  are  the  only  person  in  the 
world  that  can  cure  her.  She  is  calling  your 
name  and  talking  about  you  all  the  time.  It 
would  do  her  so  much  good  to  see  you  that  I 
hope  you  can  make  it  convenient  to  come 
home  very  soon,  if  only  for  a  day.  We 
should  all  be  so  glad  to  see  you. 

Your  true  friend, 

Mary  Goolsby. 

Holding  this  letter  in  his  hand,  little  Billy 
sank  down  on  a  camp-stool  and  sat  there. 
He  forgot  all  about  the  box.  He  sat  as  still 
as  a  statue,  and  he  was  sitting  thus  when 
Private  Chadwick  came  into  the  tent  a  half- 
hour  later.  Little  Billy  neither  turned  his 
head  nor  moved  when  the  drill-master  came 
in,  snorting  with  rage  and  consigning  all  awk- 
ward recruits  to  places  too  warm  to  be  men- 
tioned in  polite  conversation.     But  he  pulled 


A  BOLD  DESERTER  201 

himself  up  when  he  saw  little  Billy  sitting  on 
the  camp-stool  staring  at  vacancy. 

"  Hello  !  "  he  cried.  "  What  kind  of  a 
picnic  is  this  ?  If  my  nose  ain't  gone  and 
forgot  her  manners,  I  smell  cake."  He 
paused  and  looked  at  little  Billy.  Seeing 
that  the  lad  was  troubled  about  something, 
he  lowered  his  voice.  "  What 's  the  matter, 
old  man  ?  If  it 's  trouble,  it  '11  do  you  more 
good  to  talk  about  it  than  to  think  about  it." 

For  answer,  little  Billy  held  out  the  letter. 
Private  Chadwick  took  it  and  began  to  read 
it.     Then  he  held  it  close  to  his  eyes. 

"  Now,  this  is  right  down  funny,"  he  said, 
"  and  it 's  just  like  a  gal.  She  's  gone  and 
scratched  out  the  best  part."  Little  Billy 
neither  moved  nor  spoke,  but  turned  inquir- 
ing eyes  on  his  patron  and  friend.  "  She 
began  it  '  Dear  Little  Billy,'  "  Private  Chad- 
wick continued,  "  and  then  she  went  and 
scratched  it  out." 

It  was  a  very  fortunate  stroke  indeed.  The 
color  slowly  came  back  into  little  Billy's  face 
and  stayed  there.  After  Private  Chadwick 
had  read  the  letter,  little  Billy  took  it  and 
gave  it  a  careful  inspection.  His  face  was  so 
full  of  color  at  what  he  saw  that  a  stranger 
would  have  said  he  was  blushing". 


202  A   BOLD  DESERTER 

"What's  to  be  done  about  it?"  Private 
Cliadwick  asked. 

"  I  must  go  home  and  see  mammy,"  re- 
plied little  Billy. 

Private  Chadwick  shook  his  head,  and  con- 
tinued to  shake  it,  as  if  by  that  means  he 
would  blot  out  the  idea. 

"  Can't  I  get  a  furlough  ? "  little  Billy 
asked,  with  tears  in  his  voice. 

If  any  other  conscript  had  asked  him  this 
question,  Private  Chadwick  would  have  used 
violent  language,  but  the  innocence  and  igno- 
rance of  little  Billy  were  dear  to  him. 

"  Now,  who  ever  heard  of  the  like  of 
that  ? "  he  said  in  a  kindly  tone.  "  There 
ain't  but  one  way  for  a  conscript  to  leave  this 
camp,  and  that  is  to  desert." 

"  I  '11  do  it !  "  exclaimed  little  Billy. 

"  You  know  what  that  means,  I  reckon," 
said  Private  Chadwick  dryly. 

"  It  means  that  I  '11  see  my  dear  mammy 
once  more,"  replied  little  Billy.  "  And  after 
that,  I  don't  care  what  happens." 

Private  Chadwick  looked  at  little  Billy 
long  and  hard,  smiling  under  his  mustache, 
and  then  went  out.  He  walked  to  the  centre 
of  the  encampment,  where  the  flag-pole  stood. 


A  BOLD  DESERTER  203 

This  inoffensive  affair  lie  struck  hard  with 
his  fist,  exclaiming  under  his  breath,  "  Lord, 
Lord  !  What  makes  some  people  have  such 
big  gizzards  ?  " 

The  next  day  little  Billy  was  missing. 

IV 

Captain  Mosely  had  the  camp  searched,  but 
without  result,  and  in  a  little  while  everybody 
knew  that  the  lad  was  a  deserter.  During" 
the  morning  Private  Chadwick  had  a  long 
talk  with  Captain  Mosely,  and  the  result  of 
it  was  that  no  immediate  arrangements  were 
made  to  send  a  guard  after  little  Billy. 

Meanwhile,  Aunt  Sally  was  growing 
weaker  and  weaker.  Sometimes,  in  her  trou- 
bled dreams,  she  imagined  that  little  Billy 
had  come,  and  at  such  moments  she  would 
cry  out  a  glad  welcome,  and  laugh  as  heart- 
ily as  ever.  But,  for  the  most  part,  she  knew 
that  he  was  still  absent,  and  that  all  her 
dreams  were  futile  and  fleeting. 

Nevertheless,  one  bright  morning  in  the 
latter  part  of  December,  little  Billy  walked 
into  his  mother's  humble  home,  weary  and 
footsore.  Aunt  Sally  heard  his  footstep  on 
the  door-sill,  and,  weak  as  she  was,  sat  up  in 


204  A   BOLD  DESERTER 

bed  and  held  out  her  arms  to  him.  Her 
dreams  had  come  true,  but  they  had  come 
true  too  late.  When  little  Billy  removed  the 
support  of  his  arms,  in  order  to  look  at  his 
dear  mammy's  face,  she  was  dead.  The  joy 
of  meeting"  her  son  again  was  too  much  for 
the  faithful  and  tender  heart. 

All  that  could  be  done  by  kind  hearts  and 
willing  hands  was  done  by  Miss  Mary  and  the 
neighbors.  Little  Billy  shed  no  tears.  The 
shock  had  benumbed  all  his  faculties.  He 
went  about  in  a  dazed  condition.  But  when, 
the  day  after  the  funeral,  he  went  to  tell  Miss 
Mary  good-by,  the  ineffable  pity  that  shone 
in  her  face  touched  the  source  of  his  grief, 
and  he  fell  to  weeping  as  he  had  never  wept 
before.  He  would  have  kissed  her  hand,  but 
she  drew  it  away,  and,  as  he  straightened 
himself,  tiptoed  and  kissed  him  on  the  fore- 
head. With  that  she,  too,  fell  to  weeping, 
and  thus  they  parted.  But  for  many  a  long 
day  little  Billy  felt  the  pressure  of  soft  and 
rosy  lips  on  his  forehead. 

He  sold  the  old  mule  that  had  served  his 
dear  mammy  so  faithfully,  and  this  gave  him 
sufficient  money  to  pay  his  way  back  to  camp 
on  the  railroad,  with  some  dollars  to  spare. 


A  BOLD  DESERTER  205 

As  good  fortune  would  have  it,  the  first  man 
he  saw  when  the  train  stopped  at  the  station 
nearest  the  camp  was  Private  Chadwick. 
Little  Billy  spoke  to  his  friend  with  as  much 
cheerfulness  as  he  could  command. 

"  I  'm  mighty  glad  to  see  you,  old  man," 
said  Chadwick.  "  I  knowed  in  reason  that 
you  was  certain  to  come  back,  —  and,  sure 
enough,  here  you  are.  You  've  had  trouble, 
too.  Well,  trouble  has  got  a  long  arm  and  a 
hard  hand^  and  I  ain't  never  saw  the  livin' 
human  bein'  that  could  git  away  from  it 
when  it  begins  to  feel  around  for  'em." 

"Yes,"  replied  little  Billy  simply;  "I'll 
never  have  any  more  trouble  like  that  I  've 
had." 

"  It 's  mighty  hard  at  first,  always,"  re- 
marked Private  Chadwick,  with  a  sigh,  "  but 
it's  mighty  seasonin'.  The  man  that  ain't 
the  better  for  it  in  the  long  run  ain't  much 
of  a  man.     That 's  the  way  I  put  it  down." 

"  Am  I  a  deserter,  sure  enough  ? "  asked 
little  Billy,  suddenly  remembering  his  posi- 
tion. 

"  Well,  it 's  a  mixed  case,"  answered  the 
private.  "  You  've  gone  and  broke  the  rules 
and  articles  of  war,  —  I  reckon  that 's  what 


206  A  BOLD  DESERTER 

they  call  'em.  You  took  Dutch  leave.  The 
Cap  said  if  you  did  n't  come  back  in  ten  days 
he  'd  send  a  file  of  men  after  you,  and  then 
your  cake  would  'a'  been  all  dough.  But 
now  you  've  come  back  of  your  own  free  will, 
and  the  case  is  mixed.  You  are  bound  to  be 
arrested.  All  that 's  been  fixed,  and  that 's 
the  reason  I  've  been  comin'  to  the  train  every 
day  sence  you  've  been  gone.  I  wanted  to 
arrest  you  myself." 

"  Then  I  'm  a  prisoner,"  suggested  little 
Billy. 

"  That 's  about  the  size  and  shape  of  it," 
replied  Private  Chadwick. 

His  tone  was  so  emphatic  that  little  Billy 
looked  at  him.  But  there  was  a  kindly  light 
in  the  private's  eyes  and  a  pleasant  smile 
luikinof  under  his  mustache :  so  that  the 
young  fellow  thought  he  might  safely  go 
back  to  his  grief  again. 

When  they  arrived  at  camp,  Private  Chad- 
wick, with  a  great  show  of  fierce  formality, 
led  little  Billy  to  the  guard  tent,  and  there 
placed  him  in  charge  of  a  newly-made  cor- 
poral, who  knew  so  little  of  his  duties  that  he 
went  inside  the  tent,  placed  his  gun  on  the 
ground,  and  had  a  long  familiar  chat  with 
the  prisoner. 


A  BOLD  DESERTER  207 

After  the  camp  had  gone  to  bed,  Private 
Chadwick  relieved  the  guard,  and  carried 
little  Billy  to  his  own  tent,  where  Captain 
Mosely  was  waiting. 

This  rough  old  soldier  gave  little  Billy  a 
lecture  that  was  the  more  severe  because  it 
was  delivered  in  a  kindly  tone.  At  the  end 
he  informed  little  Billy  that  the  next  day  a 
squad  of  picked  men  from  the  conscript  camp 
was  to  go  to  the  front  in  charge  of  Private 
Chadwick,  the  enemy  having  shown  a  pur- 
pose to  make  a  winter  campaign. 

"  Would  you  like  to  go  ? "  the  captain 
asked. 

Little  Billy  seized  the  captain's  arm. 
"  Don't  fool  me,"  he  cried.  "  If  I  am  fit  to 
go,  let  me  go.  That 's  what  I  am  longing 
for." 

The  captain  felt  about  in  the  dark  for 
little  Billy's  hand,  and  grasped  it.  "  You 
shall  go,"  he  said,  and  walked  from  the  dark 
tent  into  the  starlight  outside. 

The  nights  are  long  to  those  who  sleep 
with  sorrow,  but,  after  all,  the  days  come 
quickly,  as  little  Billy  soon  found  out.  The 
next  morning  he  found  himself  whirling  away 
to  Virginia,  where  some  cruel  business  was 


208  A  BOLT)  DESERTER 

on  foot.  The  days  went  fast  enough  then, 
and  the  railway  train,  with  its  load  of  sol- 
diers, puffed  and  snorted  as  if  it  wanted  to 
go  faster,  too ;  but  it  went  fast  enough,  — 
just  fast  enough  to  be  switched  off  to  the 
right  of  Richmond  and  plunge  its  load  of 
conscripts  and  raw  recruits  unprepared  into  a 
furious  battle  that  had  just  reached  the  high 
tide  of  destruction.  Private  Chad  wick  was 
swept  along  with  the  rest,  and  he  tried  hard 
to  keep  his  eye  on  little  Billy,  but  found  it 
impossible,  since  they  were  soon  mixed  with 
men  who  were  wounded  and  with  men  who 
were  running  away.  Some  of  the  latter 
turned  again  when  they  saw  the  reinforce- 
ments rushing  forward  pellmell. 

Little  Billy  was  far  in  front  of  the  others. 
He  heard  the  crackle  of  musketry  and  the 
thunder  of  the  cannon,  and  ran  toward  the 
smoke  and  confusion.  A  shell  dropped  in. 
front  of  him  and  spun  around,  spitting  fire, 
but  he  ran  on,  and  never  even  heard  the  ex- 
plosion that  shattered  the  trees  around,  and 
played  havoc  with  the  reinforcements  that 
were  following.  He  jumped  over  men  that 
were  lying"  on  the  ground,  whether,  dead  or 
wounded,  he  never  knew.     Some  one,  appa- 


A  BOLD  DESERTER  209 

rently  in  command,  yelled  at  him  with  a  sav- 
age curse,  but  he  paid  no  attention  to  it. 
Directly  in  front  of  him  he  saw  a  battery  of 
three  guns.  Two  were  in  action,  but  one  had 
no  one  to  manage  it.  On  each  side  of  this 
battery,  and  a  little  to  the  rear,  the  line  of 
battle  stretched  away. 

Seeing  little  Billy  running  forward,  fol- 
lowed by  the  recruits  from  the  train,  the  line 
of  battle  began  to  cheer,  and  at  the  same 
time  to  advance.  He  had  practiced  with  an 
old  six-pounder  at  the  conscript  camp,  and 
he  now  ran,  as  if  by  instinct,  to  the  gun 
that  had  been  silenced.  The  Confederates 
charged,  but  had  to  fall  back  again,  and  then 
they  began  to  retire,  slowly  at  first,  and  then 
with  some  haste.  Little  Billy  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  this  movement  at  all.  He  continued 
to  serve  his  gun  and  fire  it  as  rapidly  as  he 
could.  Shot  and  shell  from  the  Federal  bat- 
teries plowed  up  the  ground  around  him,  but 
never  touched  him.  Presently  a  tall  man 
with  a  long  brown  beard  rode  out  of  the 
smoke  and  ordered  little  Billy  to  retreat, 
pointing,  as  he  did  so,  to  the  bristling  line  of 
Federals  charging  up  the  hill. 

"  Take  hold  of  my  stirrup,"  said  the  tall 


210  A  BOLD  DESERTER 

man.  He  spurred  his  horse  into  a  rapid  trot, 
and  little  Billy  trotted  by  his  side,  mightily 
helped  by  holding  on  to  the  stirrup.  In  this 
way  they  were  soon  out  of  it,  and  in  a  little 
while  had  caught  up  with  the  main  body, 
which  had  planted  itself  a  couple  of  miles 
farther  back,  while  the  brigade  in  which  little 
Billy  had  fought  was  holding  the  enemy  at 
bay. 

Little  Billy's  face  was  black  with  powder, 
but  his  eyes  shone  like  stars.  He  knew  now 
that  never  again  would  danger  or  the  fear  of 
death  cause  him  to  flinch. 

"  What  regiment  do  you  belong  to  ? " 
asked  the  tall  man  as  they  went  along. 

"  None,"  replied  little  Billy  simply.  Then 
he  told  how  he  was  just  from  a  conscript 
camp  in  Georgia.  When  they  arrived  at  the 
Confederate  position  the  tall  man  called  to  an 
officer :  — 

"  This  is  my  rear  guard,"  said  he.  "  See 
that  he  is  cared  for."  Then  to  little  Billy, 
"  When  this  affair  blows  over,  brush  up  and 
call  on  General  Jeb  Stuart.  He  needs  a  cou- 
rier, and  you  are  the  man." 

As  there  was  no  sign  of  a  fiodit  the  next 
day,    little   Billy    went   to    General    Stuart's 


LITTLE    BILLY   TROTTED   BY    HIS   SIDE 


A  BOLD  DESERTER  211 

headquarters  and  was  ushered  in.  That  fa- 
mous fighter,  who  happened  to  be  the  officer 
who  had  noticed  him  the  day  before,  took 
him  by  the  arm  and  introduced  him  to  his 
staff,  and  told  how  he  had  found  him  serving 
a  gun  after  the  entire  brigade  had  begun  to 
retreat. 

This  was  the  beginning.  Little  Billy  be- 
came a  courier,  then  an  aid,  and  when  the 
war  closed  he  was  in  command  of  a  regi- 
ment. His  recklessness  as  a  fig-liter  had  given 
a  sort  of  romantic  color  to  his  name,  so  that 
the  newspaper  correspon dents  found  nothing 
more  popular  than  an  anecdote  about  Colonel 
Cochran. 

His  fame  had  preceded  him  to  Hillsbor- 
ough, and  he  had  a  queer  feeling  when  the 
older  citizens,  men  who  had  once  awed  him 
by  their  pride  and  their  fine  presence,  took 
off  their  hats  as  they  greeted  him.  The 
most  demonstrative  among  these  was  Major 
Goolsby. 

"  You  are  to  come  right  to  my  house,  Colo- 
nel. You  belong  to  us,  you  know."  This 
was  Major  Goolsby's  greeting,  as  he  clung  to 
Colonel  Cochran's  hand.  "  It  will  be  a  great 
surprise  to  Mary.     She  '11  never  know  you  in 


212  A  BOLD  DESERTER 

the. round  world.  Why,  you've  grown  to  be 
a  six-footer." 

So  there  was  nothing  for  Colonel  Cochran 
to  do  but  to  go  to  the  Goolsby  place,  a  fine 
house  built  on  a  hill  beyond  the  old  church. 
The  major  wanted  to  give  his  daughter  a  sur- 
prise, and  so  he  carried  Colonel  Cochran  into 
the  parlor,  and  then  told  Miss  Mary  that  one 
of  her  friends  had  called  to  see  her. 

The  young  lady  went  skipping  into  the 
parlor,  and  then  paused  with  a  frightened  air, 
as  she  saw  a  six-foot  man  in  faded  uniform 
rise  to  meet  her. 

"  Miss  Mary,"  said  Colonel  Cochran,  hold- 
ing out  his  hand. 

"  Are  you  "  —  She  paused,  grew  white 
and  then  red,  and  suddenly  turned  and  ran 
out  of  the  room,  nearly  upsetting  the  major, 
who  was  standing  near  the  door. 

"  Why,  what  on  earth  's  the  matter?"  he 
cried.  "Well,  if  this  don't  beat—  Did 
she  know  you,  Colonel  ?  " 

"  I  'm  afraid  she  did,"  replied  the  colonel 
grimly. 

The  major  tiptoed  to  his  daughter's  room, 
opened  the  door  softly,  and  found  her  on 
her  knees  by  her  bed,  crying.     Thereupon  he 


A  BOLD  DESERT EB  213 

tiptoed  back  again,  and  said  to  Colonel  Coch- 
ran, "  It 's  all  right.      She 's  crying." 

The  colonel  smiled  dryly.  "  If  I  make  the 
women  cry,  what  will  the  children  do  when 
they  see  me  !  " 

The  major  laid  his  hand  affectionately  on 
Cochran's  arm.  "  Don't  you  fret,"  he  said. 
"  Just  wait." 

And  so  wonderful  are  the  ways  of  women, 
that  when  Miss  Mary  came  out  again,  she 
greeted  the  colonel  cordially,  and  was  as  gay 
as  a  lark.  And  nothing  would  do  but  he 
must  fight  his  battles  over  again,  which  he 
did  with  great  spirit  when  he  saw  her  fine 
eyes  kindling  with  enthusiasm,  and  her  lips 
trembling  from  sheer  sympathy. 

Strange  to  say,  nobody  knew  what  it  all 
meant  but  the  old  cook,  who  stood  in  the 
doorway  leading  from  the  dining-room  to 
the  kitchen  and  watched  her  young  mistress. 
She  went  back  in  the  kitchen  and  said  to  her 
husband  :  — 

"  Ef  you  want  ter  see  how  folks  does  when 
dey  er  in  love,  go  ter  de  door  dar  an'  look  at 
dat  ar  chile  er  our'n." 

The  old  man  looked  in,  watched  Miss  Mary 
a  moment,  and  then  looked  hard  at  Colonel 
Cochran. 


214  A  BOLD  DESERTER 

"  I  dunno  so  much  'bout  de  gal,"  he  said, 
when  he  went  back,  "  but  dat  ar  man  got  mo' 
in  his  eye  dan  what  his  tongue  want  ter  tell." 

And  it  was  so  ;  and,  being  so,  the  whole 
story  is  told. 


A  BABY  IN  THE   SIEGE 


The  war  correspondents  have  had  their 
say  about  the  siege  of  Atlanta,  and  some  of 
their  remarks  figure  forth  as  history.  They 
have  presented  the  matter  with  technical  dia- 
grams, and  in  language  flying  beyond  the 
reach  of  idiom  into  the  regions  of  rhetoric  ; 
and  the  artists  have  followed  close  behind 
with  illuminated  crayons,  turning  the  Chat- 
tahoochee Hills  crosswise  the  horizon,  and 
giving  the  muddy  river  a  tendency  to  wash 
itself  in  the  Pacific  Ocean.  These  are  but 
the  tassels  and  embroideries  that  history  deco- 
rates herself  with  in  order  to  attract  atten- 
tion, and  they  are  inevitable  ;  for  experience 
must  serve  a  long  and  an  arduous  apprentice- 
ship to  life  before  it  discovers  that  a  fact  is 
more  imposing  in  its  simplicity  than  in  any 
other  dress. 

The  imposing  fact  about  the  siege  of  At- 
lanta is  that  the  besieged  came  to  regard  it  as 


216  A  BABY  IN   THE  SIEGE 

a  very  tame  affair.  It  is  natural,  too,  that 
this  should  have  been  so,  for  the  lines  of 
defense  were  two  or  three  miles  from  the 
centre  of  the  city,  and  the  lines  of  the  be- 
siegers were  almost  as  far  again.  The  bom- 
bardment was  not  such  an  affair  as  a  lively 
imagination  might  conjure  up,  being  casual 
and  desultory.  The  streets  were  thronged 
day  after  day  with  soldiers  and  civilians,  and 
even  women  and  children  were  not  lacking  to 
lend  liveliness  to  the  scene.  Business  seemed 
to  thrive,  and  the  ordinary  forms  of  gayety 
went  forward  with  the  zest,  if  not  the  fre- 
quency, characteristic  of  the  piping  times  of 
peace. 

It  seemed  that  the  confusion  —  the  feeling 
of  present  or  impending  danger  —  had  lifted 
from  the  population  that  sense  of  responsi- 
bility that  lends  an  air  of  sobriety  and  sedate- 
ness  to  communities  that  are  blessed  with 
peace.  Man's  crust  of  civilization  is  not  by 
any  means  as  thick  as  he  pretends  to  believe, 
and  war  has  the  knack  of  thrusting  its  long 
sword  through  in  unexpected  places,  strip- 
ping off  the  disguise,  and  exposing  the  whole 
shallow  scheme. 

While    Atlanta    was    enjoying   itself   in   a 


A  BABY  IN   THE  SIEGE  217 

reckless  way,  in  spite  of  its  portentous  sur- 
roundings, the  outer  lines  of  defense  were 
kept  busy.  The  big  guns  and  the  little  guns 
were  engaged  in  a  rattling  controversy,  an 
incessant  dispute,  which  died  away  in  one 
quarter  only  to  be  renewed  in  another.  This 
was  all  very  satisfactory,  but  while  it  was 
going  on,  what  must  have  been  the  feelings 
of  the  inner  lines  of  defense?  The  outer 
lines  had  their  morning,  noon,  and  evening 
frays,  and  Atlanta  had  its  frolics,  but  the 
inner  lines  lay  still  and  stupid.  Here  were 
the  reserves  —  the  fiery  and  dapper  little 
State  cadets,  fretting  and  fuming  because 
they  were  not  ordered  to  the  front  with  the 
veterans.  Here  were  Joe  Brown's  "  melish," 
to  be  hereafter  the  victims  of  the  wild  mis- 
take at  Griswoldsville ;  and  here  were  the 
conscripts  that  had  been  seasoning  them- 
selves at  the  camp  of  instruction  at  Adairs- 
ville,  until  Johnston's  army  —  performing  its 
celebrated  feat  of  retiring  and  sweeping  the 
ground  clean  as  it  went  —  fell  upon  and 
absorbed  them,  giving  them  an  unexpected 
taste  of  active  service. 

Naturally,  the  inner  lines  were  discontented. 
The  shells  that  went  Atlantaward  flew  harm- 


218  A  BABY  IN   THE  SIEGE 

lessly  over  their  heads,  and  the  main  business 
of  war  going  forward  in  the  outer  ditches 
came  to  them  like  the  echo  of  the  toy  artil- 
lery that  the  children  prank  with  on  holidays. 
The  monotony  was  all  but  unbearable,  and 
the  pert  and  fearless  little  cadets  began  to 
break  it  by  "  running  the  blockade."  They 
had  an  occasional  mishap,  but  their  example 
was  contagious  among  those  who  had  a  spirit 
of  enterprise  and  were  fond  of  an  adventure 
that  had  a  spice  of  danger  in  it.  The  new 
and  jaunty  uniform  of  the  cadets  seemed  to 
carry  good  luck  with  it,  for  those  who  wore 
it  went  unchallenged  about  the  town  at  all 
hours  of  the  day  and  night ;  whereas  the  rag- 
tag and  bobtail,  who  had  no  such  neat  and 
conspicuous  toggery,  were  frequently  put  to 
it  to  escape  arrest  and  detention. 

Captain  Mosely,  who  commanded  the  con- 
script contingent,  was  not  surprised,  there- 
fore, when,  on  the  occasion  of  a  visit  to  the 
city,  he  saw  his  drill  sergeant,  Private  Chad- 
wick,  sauntering  along  the  street  arrayed  in 
the  uniform  of  the  cadets.  The  suit  was  a 
misfit.  The  jacket  was  too  short  in  the  waist, 
and  the  trousers  were  too  short  in  the  legs, 
but  Chadwick  slouched  along  in  happy  un- 


A  BABY  IN   THE  SIEGE  219 

consciousness  of  the  figure  he  was  cutting. 
The  truth  is,  no  one  noticed  him  except  his 
captain.  The  people  who  passed  him  on  the 
street,  and  whom  he  passed,  were  much  too 
busy  to  be  critical.  There  was  hardly  a 
spectacle  so  singular  as  to  have  the  charm  of 
novelty  to  them. 

In  point  of  fact,  there  was  at  that  moment, 
not  a  hundred  feet  in  front  of  Private  Chad- 
wick,  a  curious  creature  in  the  similitude  of 
a  man,  capering  about  in  the  middle  of  the 
street,  waving  its  arms  and  jabbering  away 
with  a  volubility  and  an  incoherence  that 
struck  painfully  on  the  ear.  And  yet  hun- 
dreds of  people  passed  the  spectacle  by  with- 
out so  much  as  turning  their  heads.  But  a 
few  paused  to  watch  the  antics  of  the  mon- 
strosity, and  among  them  was  Private  Chad- 
wick.  Captain  Mosely  also  paused  a  little 
distance  away,  and  gazed  curiously  at  the 
cringing  and  writhing  figure  in  the  street. 
A  closer  inspection  showed  that  what  ap- 
peared to  be  a  monstrosity  was  merely  antic 
exaggeration,  the  contortions  of  a  remark- 
ably agile  hunchback. 

Captain  Mosely  watched  the  capers  of  the 
hunchback  with  an  interest  that  seemed  to 


220  A  BABY  IN   THE  SIEGE 

breed  familiarity.  The  long  and  limber  legs, 
the  long  and  muscular  arms,  where  had  he 
seen  them  before  ?  The  hunchback  moved 
from  side  to  side,  gesticulating  and  jabbering 
like  one  possessed.  Some  of  the  spectators 
tossed  money  to  him,  and  some  tobacco. 
These  gifts  he  seized  and  stowed  away  with 
the  quickness  of  a  monkey.  Suddenly,  as  he 
was  whirling  around  in  idiotic  frenzy,  his  eyes 
met  those  of  Captain  Mosely.  As  quick  as 
a  flash  the  hunchback's  demeanor  changed. 
His  arms  dropped  to  his  side,  his  head,  with 
its  mass  of  wild  and  tangled  hair,  fell  forward 
on  his  breast,  and  he  sidled  off  down  the 
street,  the  crowd  readily  making  way  for 
him. 

Private  Chadwick,  who  had  been  watching 
these  manoeuvres  with  almost  breathless  in- 
terest, observed  the  change  that  came  over 
the  hunchback,  and  looked  around  to  find 
the  cause  of  it.  His  eye  fell  on  Captain 
Mosely,  and  he  brought  his  right  hand  down 
on  the  palm  of  his  left  with  a  resounding 
whack. 

"  I  know'd  it !  "  he  exclaimed  breathlessly, 
as  he  reached  the  captain's  side. 

"  You  knew  what  ?  " 


A  BABY  IN   THE  SIEGE  221 

"Why,  I  know'd  that  imp  of  Satan  the 
minnit  I  laid  eyes  on  him.  I  know'd  him  as 
quick  as  he  did  you." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"  Why,  good  Lord,  Cap !  don't  you  know 
the  chap  that  tuck  you  in  on  Sugar  Mountain 
when  we  went  after  Spurlock?  The  man 
that  shot  Lovejoy  ?  Don't  you  know  Danny 
Lemmons  ?  " 

For  answer  Captain  Mosely  gave  a  long, 
low  whistle  of  astonishment. 

"An'  now  he  's  here  playin'  crazy.  I  'd 
like  to  know  what  he  's  up  to,  ding  his 
hide ! " 

"  He  's  a  spy,"  said  Captain  Mosely.  "  He 
was  a  Union  man  on  Sugar  Mountain.  He 
commanded  the  bushwhackers.  He  has 
slipped  through  the  lines.  We  must  n't  let 
him  slip  back  again.  He  's  a  dangerous 
character.  I  want  you  to  follow  him.  He 
must  be  arrested.  Report  to  the  provost 
marshal ;  you  know  where  his  headquarters 
are.     I  '11  leave  instructions  there  for  you." 

Chadwick  had  been  trying  to  keep  an  eye 
on  the  hunchback  while  talking  with  his  cap- 
tain, but  it  was  by  the  merest  chance  that  he 
saw   him    turn   out   of  Alabama  Street    into 


222  .4    BABY  IN    THE  SIEGE 

Whitehall.  He  was  going,  as  Chad  wick  ex- 
pressed it,  "  in  a  half-canter,"  waving  his 
arms  and  jabbering,  and  the  people  were 
giving  him  as  much  room  on  the  sidewalk  as 
he  wanted.  Private  Chadwick  walked  as 
rapidly  as  he  could  without  attracting  atten- 
tion. His  instinct  told  him  that  if  he  ran  or 
even  appeared  to  be  in  too  great  a  hurry  he 
would  presently  be  arrested  ;  so  he  went  for- 
ward easily  but  swiftly ;  his  slouching  gait 
being  well  calculated  to  deceive  the  eyes  of 
those  who  migdit  be  moved  to  regard  him 
attentively. 

But  at  the  corner  of  Whitehall  Street  he 
was  delayed  by  a  file  of  soldiers  conveying  a 
squad  of  forlorn  prisoners,  captured  in  some 
sally  or  skirmish  on  the  outer  lines.  Disen- 
tano-ling-  himself  from  the  small  rabble  that 
surrounded  and  accompanied  the  soldiers  and 
their  prisoners,  Chadwick  pressed  forward 
again.  Looking  far  down  Whitehall  he  saw 
the  hunchback  whisk  into  Mitchell  Street. 
He  hastened  forward,  but  thereafter  he  was 
compelled  to  rely  wholly  on  his  own  judg- 
ment, for  when  he  reached  the  corner  of 
Mitchell,  the  hunchback  had  disappeared. 
At    the    outset,    therefore,   Chadwick    had  a 


A  BABY  IN   THE  SIEGE  223 

problem  before  him.  Did  the  hunchback 
turn  back  down  Forsyth  Street?  Did  he  go 
out  Mitchell,  or  did  he  turn  down  Peters 
Street  ?  Chad  wick  asked  a  few  of  the  peo- 
ple whom  he  met  if  they  had  seen  the  hunch- 
back, but  he  received  unsatisfactory  replies. 

He  therefore  turned  into  Peters  Street, 
which  at  that  time  led  into  the  most  disre- 
putable part  of  the  town.  It  led  through 
"  Snake  Nation,"  where  crime  had  its  head- 
quarters, and  then  outward  and  onward 
through  green  fields  and  forests  until  it  lost 
itself  in  the  red  trenches  that  war  had  duo-. 
Private  Chadwick  followed  the  street  some- 
what aimlessly,  knowing  that  only  an  acci- 
dent would  enable  him  to  find  the  hunch- 
back. As  he  crossed  the  railroad,  a  shrill 
voice  railed  out  at  him ;  it  may  have  carried 
a  curse,  it  may  have  borne  an  invitation  ;  he 
did  not  wait  to  see.  On  the  hill-top  beyond, 
he  paused.  Here  Peters  Street  became  once 
more  the  public  road,  and  here  Private  Chad- 
wick commanded  a  fine  view  of  the  town  and 
the  country  beyond.  As  he  stood  hesitating, 
he  heard  the  voice  of  a  woman  calling'  him. 
He  would  have  shrunk  from  it  as  from  the 
voice  of  Snake  Nation,  but  this  voice  pro- 
nounced his  name. 


224  A   BABY  IN    THE  SIEGE 

He  turned  and  saw  a  woman  standing  at 
the  gate  of  a  neat-looking  cottage,  a  hundred 
feet  back  from  the  street.  With  her  hair 
half-falling  down,  and  her  sleeves  rolled  up, 
this  woman  did  not  present  a  pretty  picture 
at  first  sight ;  but,  within  hearing  of  Snake 
Nation,  a  face  that  wore  the  stamp  of  inno- 
cence was  a  thing  of  beauty.  Private  Chad- 
wick  saw  it  and  felt  it,  and  though  the  gesture 
with  which  he  tipped  his  hat  was  awkward, 
it  was  quick  and  sincere. 

"  I  'mos'  know  you  've  done  fergot  me," 
she  said,  as  Chadwick  went  toward  her.  "But 
I  'd  a  know'd  you  if  I  'd  a  seed  you  in  Texas." 

There  was  something  pathetic  in  her  eager- 
ness to  be  recognized,  yet  her  attitude  was 
not  one  of  expectation.  Chadwick  looked  at 
her  and  shook  his  head  slowly. 

"  No  'm.  I  disremember  if  I  've  ever  seed 
you.  But,  Lord  !  I  've  been  so  tore  up  an' 
twisted  aroun'  sence  this  fuss  begun,  that  I 
would  n't  know  my  own  sister  if  she  wuz  to 
meet  me  in  a  strange  place.  You  may  be 
her,  for  all  I  know." 

The  woman  smiled  at  the  deftly  put  com- 
pliment. 

"  No,  my  goodness  !     I  ain't  your   sister. 


A  BABY  IN   THE  SIEGE  225 

I  wisht  I  wuz  right  now,  I  'd  feel  lots  better. 
No  !  Don't  you  remember  that  Christmas 
on  Sugar  Mountain  when  Israel  Spurlock  an' 
Polly  Powers  wuz  married  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes  'm !  "  exclaimed  Chadwick, 
"  I  've  been  a-thinkin'  'bout  that  all  day 
long." 

"  Well,  I  wuz  right  thar  !  " 

"  Now,  you  don't  say  !  You  ain't  Cassy 
—  Cassy  "  — 

"  Cassy  Tatum  !  Yes,  siree !  The  very 
gal !  "  She  laughed,  as  though  well  pleased 
that  Chadwick  should  remember  her  first 
name. 

"  Well  —  well  —  well !  "  said  Chadwick. 

"  Yes,  I  married  right  along  after  that,  an' 
you  can't  guess  who  to  ?  " 

Chadwick  scratched  his  head  and  pretended 
to  be  trying  to  guess.  By  this  time,  Cassy 
had  led  him  into  the  house  by  the  back  en- 
trance, and  placed  a  chair  for  him  in  a  little 
room  that  was  apparently  her  own.  A  baby 
lay  sleeping  on  the  bed.  Chadwick  gazed  at 
it  suspiciously  as  he  seated  himself  in  the 
chair  she  placed  for  him.  He  felt  out  of 
place. 

"  Oh,  you  'd  never  guess  it  while  the  sun, 


226  A  BABY  IN   THE  SIEGE 

moon,  an'  stars  shine,"  continued  Cassy.  "  I 
married  Danny  Lemmons  !  " 

"  The  great  kingdom  come  !  "  exclaimed 
Chadwick,  leaping  from  his  chair.  "  The 
humpback  man  ?  Is  he  anywheres  aroun' 
here  ?  Ef  he  is,  don't  tell  me  —  don't  tell 
me  !  He  'd  never  forgive  you  while  the  worl' 
stan's." 

"  What  's  he  got  agin  you  ? "  inquired 
Mrs.  Lemmons. 

"  Not  anything,  ma'am,  that  I  knows  on," 
replied  Chadwick,    sitting  down  again. 

"  How  I  come  to  marry  him  I  '11  never  tell 
you,"  said  Cassy,  seating  herself  on  the  side 
of  the  bed.  "  But  you  know  how  gals  is. 
They  don't  know  their  own  mind  ef  they  've 
got  one.  Pap  was  in  the  war  fightin'  fer 
sesaysion,  an'  Maw  wuz  dead,  an'  thar  I  wuz 
a-livin'  roun'  from  family  to  family,  spinnin' 
an'  weavin',  an'  waitin'  on  the  sick.  I  tell 
you  now,  a  gal  that 's  got  to  live  from  han' 
to  mouth  thataway,  an'  be  a  dependin'  on 
Tom,  Dick,  an'  Harry  an'  the'r  wives  —  that 
gal  hain't  in  no  gyarden  of  Eden  —  now,  you 
may  say  what  you  please !  Well,  jest  about 
that  time,  here  come  this  here  creetur  you  call 
Danny   Lemmons.      He    pestered  me   mighty 


A  BABY  IN  THE  SIEGE  227 

nigh  to  death.  I  could  n't  take  two  steps 
away  from  the  house  but  what  he  'd  jump 
out  of  the  bushes  an'  ast  me  to  have  'im. 
An'  a  whole  passel  of  people  up  an'  tol'  me 
I  'd  better  marry  'im.  They  'low'd  a  cripple 
man  wuz  better  'n  no  man.  Well,  they  ag- 
gervated  me  tell  I  married  'im." 

Cassy  paused  here,  picking  imaginary 
thrums  and  ravelings  from  her  apron.  Chad- 
wick  fumbled  with  his  hat  and  looked  gravely 
at  a  sun-spot  as  round  as  a  dollar  dancing  on 
the  floor. 

"  I  married  him, "  she  went  on,  "  an'  I 
jumped  out  of  the  fryin'-pan  right  spang  in 
the  fire.  I  tell  you,  he  's  the  Devil  —  claws 
an'  all.  He  led  me  a  dog's  life.  Jealous! 
Fidgety  !  Mean  !  Low-minded  !  Nasty  !  — 
Shucks  !  I  could  n't  begin  to  tell  you  about 
that  creetur  ef  I  wuz  to  set  here  an'  talk  a 
week.  It  got  so  that  I  couldn't  no  more 
live  wi'  him  than  I  could  live  in  a  pot  er 
bilin'  water.  So  when  the  army  come  along, 
I  tuck  my  baby  an'  come  away.  He  vowed 
day  in  an'  day  out  that  ef  I  ever  run  off  he  'd 
foller  me  up  an'  git  the  baby  thar,  an'  take 
it  off  in  the  woods  an'  make  'way  wi'  it." 

At  this  point  the  baby  in  question  joined 


228  A  BABY  IN   THE  SIEGE 

the  conversation  with  some  remarks  in  its 
own  peculiar  language,  and  Cassy  lifted  it 
from  the  bed,  a  squirming  bundle  of  red  fists 
and  keen  squalls,  and,  turning  her  chair  away 
from  Chadwick,  proceeded  to  silence  it  with 
the  old-fashioned  argument  that  healthy  mo- 
thers know  so  well  how  to  use.  It  was  a 
bundle  of  such  doubtful  shape  that  Chadwick 
had  his  suspicions  aroused. 

"  The  young  un  's  all  right,  ain't  it  ?  "  he 
ventured.  "  It  don't  take  atter  the  daddy,  I 
reckon  ?  " 

For  answer  Cassy  bent  over  the  baby, 
laughing  and  cooing. 

"  Did  'e  nassy  ol'  man  sink  mammy's  itty 
bitty  pudnum  pie  have  a  hump  on  'e  fweet 
itty  bitty  back  ?  Nyassum  did  sink  so  ! 
Mammy's  itty  bitty  pudnum  pie  be  mad  in 
de  weekly." 

Chadwick,  listening  with  something  of  a 
sheepish  air,  understood  from  this  philological 
discourse  that  any  person  who  suggested  or 
intimated  that  the  young  Lemmons  was 
shapen  or  misshapen  on  the  pattern  of  the 
senior  Lemmons  was  an  unnatural  and  a  per- 
verse slanderer.  Cassy  looked  over  her  shoul- 
der at  him  and  laughed.  In  a  few  moments 
she  placed  the  baby  on  the  bed. 


A  BABY  IN   THE  SIEGE  229 

"  Well,"  said  Chadwick,  shuffling  his  feet 
about  on  the  floor  uneasily,  "  you  may  as  well 
primp  up  an'  look  your  best,  bekaze  it  hain't 
been  a  half-hour  sence  I  seed  Danny  Lem- 
mons  a-caperin'  about  in  town  yander." 

The  color  fled  from  the  woman's  face,  leav- 
ing- it  white  as  a  sheet.  The  blue  veins  in 
her  temples  shone  ghastly  through  the  skin. 

"  I  hope  you  ain't  afeard  of  'im  ?  "  inquired 
Chadwick,  with  a  pitying  glance. 

"  Afeard !  Yes,  I  'm  afeard  to  do  mur- 
der. I  'm  afeard  to  have  his  blood  on  me  ! " 
She  spoke  in  a  husky  whisper.  Her  eyes 
glittered  and  her  lips  were  drawn  and  dry. 
As  she  reached  for  her  chair,  her  hands  shook. 
After  she  sat  down,  her  fingers  opened  and 
shut  convulsively.  "  I  've  done  dreampt  about 
it,"  she  went  on,  trying  to  clear  her  throat, 
"  an'  it 's  obleege  to  be.  Sev'm  times  has  it 
come  to  me  in  my  sleep  that  I  've  got  his 
blood  on  my  ban's.  Hit  wuz  as  plain  as  the 
nose  on  your  face.  I  seed  it  an'  felt  it.  How 
it  come  thar,  my  dreams  hain't  tole  me,  but 
I  know  in  reason  hit  's  bekaze  I  killt  'im. 
Well,  ef  it 's  got  to  come,  I  wisht  it  'ud  make 
'aste  an'  come,  an'  be  done  wi'  it." 

She  went  to  a  little  cupboard  in  one  corner 


230  A  BABY  IN   THE  SIEGE 

of  the  room,  turned  the  wooden  button  that 
kept  the  door  shut,  and  drew  forth  a  carpen- 
ter's hatchet.  The  blue  steel  of  the  blade 
shone  brightly.     It  was  brand  new. 

"  That  little  thing,"  she  said,  holding  it 
up,  "  cost  sev'm  dollars  and  a  half.  But,  la  ! 
I  reckon  it 's  wuth  the  money."  She  lifted 
her  apron,  showing  a  small  wire  bent  in  the 
shape  of  a  hook,  and  suspended  from  her 
belt.  On  this  wire  she  hung  the  hatchet, 
the  hook  fitting  into  the  slit  or  notch  on  the 
inner  side  of  the  blade. 

"  Well,"  exclaimed  Chadwick  admiringly, 
"  that 's  the  fust  time  I  ever  know'd  what  a 
notch  in  a  hatchet  wuz  fer !  " 

"  Let  a  woman  'lone  fer  that ! "  replied 
Cassy,  making  an  effort  to  laugh. 

"  I  don't  reckon  Danny  Lemmons  '11  likely 
fin'  you  here,"  said  Chadwick  after  a  while. 

"  Who  —  him  !  Why,  he  's  the  imp  of  the 
Ole  Boy.  Ef  he  's  in  town,  he  kin  shet  his 
eyes  tight  an'  walk  right  straight  here.  The 
human  bein'  don't  live  that  kin  fool  Danny 
Lemmons.  I  reckon  maybe  I  could  take  the 
baby  an'  hide  out  in  the  woods ;  but  them 
ole  folks  in  the  house  thar,  they  tuck  me  in 
when  I  did  n't   have  a  mouffle  to  eat  ner  a 


A   BABY  IN    THE  SIEGE  231 

place  to  lay  my  head,  an'  now  they  're  in 
trouble  I  hain't  a-gwine  to  sneak  off  an'  leave 
'em  —  I  hain't  a-gwine  to  do  it.  They  're 
both  ole  an'  trimbly.  The  ole  man  says  he  's 
got  a  pile  er  money  hid  aroun'  here  some'rs, 
but  he  's  done  gone  an'  fergot  wharbouts  he 
put  it  at,  an'  he  jes  vows  he  won't  go  off  an' 
leave  it." 

She  spoke  slowly,  and  paused  every  now 
and  then  to  pick  at  her  apron,  as  though  re- 
flecting over  matters  that  had  no  part  in  her 
conversation. 

"  I  declare  to  gracious !  "  she  continued, 
"  it 's  pitiful  to  see  them  two  ole  creeturs  go 
moanin'  an'  mumblin'  aroun',  a-pokin'  in 
cracks  an'  in  the  holes  in  the  groun'  a-huntin' 
fer  the'r  money.  They  've  ripped  up  the'r 
bed-ticks  an'  tore  up  the  floor  a  time  or  two. 
They  hain't  got  nothin'  to  live  fer  'less'n  it 's 
the  money." 

Chadwick  took  his  leave  as  soon  as  he  could 
do  so  without  breaking  the  thread  of  Cassy's 
discourse.  He  left  her  talking  volubly  to 
the  baby,  which  had  jumped  in  its  sleep  and 
woke  screaming-  with  frig-lit. 

"  I  reckon  it  dreampt  it  seed  its  daddy," 
said  Chadwick,  as  he  bowed  himself  out. 


232  A  BABY  IN    THE  SIEGE 

II 

Meanwhile  Danny  Lemmons  was  carrying 
out  plans  of  his  own.  He  was  a  spy  without 
knowing  what  a  serious  venture  he  was  en- 
gaged in.  He  had  been  roaming  around  in 
the  Federal  lines  for  a  fortnight,  playing  his 
fiddle,  and  cutting  up  his  queer  antics.  One 
night,  after  playing  a  selection  of  jigs  and 
reels  for  a  group  of  young  officers  attached  to 
General  Slocum's  staff,  he  said  he  was  going 
into  Atlanta  after  his  baby. 

"  You  '11  never  go,"  said  one  of  the  offi- 
cers. 

"  I  '11  go  or  bust,"  replied  Danny  Lem- 
mons. 

"  If  you  go  you  '11  stay,"  remarked  another 
officer.  "  I  believe  you  're  a  Johnny,  any- 
how." 

"  I  '11  go,  and  I  '11  come  back  right  here, 
an'  I  '11  fetch  my  baby  back." 

"  Bah  !  Bring  us  some  papers.  Ransack 
Joe  Johnston's  headquarters.  Stuff  a  map 
under  your  jacket.  Bring  us  something  to 
show  you  've  been  in  Atlanta.  Anybody  can 
skirmish  around  here  and  steal  a  baby,  but 
not  one  man  in  a  thousand  can  £0  through 


A  BABY  IN   THE  SIEGE  233 

the  lines  and  ransack  the  headquarters  of  the 
Johnnies  and  bring  back  documents  to  show 
for  it." 

"I'm  the  man  !  Jest  hoi'  my  riddle  till  I 
git  back  !  "  exclaimed  Danny  Lemmons. 

How  the  hunchback  passed  the  Confeder- 
ate lines  it  would  be  impossible  to  say.  He 
was  as  alert  as  any  flying  creature,  as  cun- 
ning as  any  creeping  thing,  as  crafty  as 
patience  and  practice  can  make  a  man.  He 
reached  Atlanta  and  made  himself  as  much 
at  home  in  the  streets  as  any  of  the  little 
arabs  that  flitted  from  corner  to  corner. 
He  saw  Captain  Mosely,  knew  him,  and  was 
anxious  to  avoid  him,  not  because  he  appre- 
ciated the  danger  of  his  position,  but  be- 
cause he  could  not  successfully  play  the  part 
of  an  imbecile  under  Mosely's  eyes. 

He  went  rapidly  down  Whitehall  Street, 
keeping  up  the  pretence  of  idiocy,  but  when 
he  turned  and  went  into  Forsyth,  he  dropped 
the  character  altogether,  and  became  once 
more  the  Danny  Lemmons  of  Sugar  Moun- 
tain,   queer  but  shrewd.     He  inquired  the 

way  to  headquarters.  The  soldier  whom  he 
asked  directed  him  to  the  provost-marshal's 
office,   which  was    not  far   from    where    the 


234  A   BABY  IN   THE  SIEGE 

Kimball  House  now  stands.  He  made  no 
haste  to  get  there,  loitering  as  he  went  along, 
and  examining  whatever  was  new  or  strange 
with  the  curiosity  of  a  countryman. 

The  result  was  that  when  he  reached  the 
provost-marshal's  office,  that  official  was  pre- 
paring to  send  out  and  arrest  him.  Captain 
Mosely  had  preceded  him  by  half  an  hour. 
The  moment  he  entered  Danny  Lemmons 
knew  that  something  was  wrong,  and,  quick 
as  a  flash,  he  assumed  the  character  of  a 
"  loony."  The  transition  was  so  quick  that 
it  was  unobserved  by  two  keen-eyed  men  who 
fixed  their  attention  on  him  as  soon  as  he 
entered  the  door.  He  paused  and  gazed  at 
them  with  a  deprecating  grin. 

"  Is  this  place  whar  they  conscript  them 
what  wants  to  jine  the  war?"  he  asked. 

The  provost-marshal,  a  man  with  a  tremen- 
dous mustache  and  beetling  eyebrows,  stared 
at  him  savagely,  but  made  no  reply. 

"  Oh,  yes,  hit  is  !  "  exclaimed  Danny  Lem- 
mons, "  bekaze  they  tol'  me  down  the  road 
that  you-all  'd  let  me  jine  the  war." 

"  You  are  a  spy  !  "  said  the  officer  fiercely. 

"  Lord,  yes  !  Wuss  'n  that,  I  reckon.  I 
kin  run  an'  jump,  an'  rastle.     Whoopee,  yes  ! 


A  BABY  IN    THE  SIEGE  235 

You  ain't  never  seed  me  rastle.  Shucks  !  I 
kin  tie  one  ban'  beliin'  me  an'  put  your  back 
in  the  dirt.  Yes-sir-ree  !  "  He  stuck  his 
tongue  out  of  the  corner  of  his  mouth  and 
stood  blinking  at  the  officer. 

The  two  men  who  were  standing  near,  one 
tall  and  muscular  and  the  other  short  and 
fat,  exchanged  glances  and  tried  their  best 
to  keep  their  faces  straight. 

"  When  did  you  leave  the  Yankee  army  ?  " 
the  officer  asked. 

"  Las'  night !  "  responded  Danny  Lem- 
mons.  "  Lord,  yes  !  I  follered  'em  down 
from  Sugar  Mountain,  try  in'  to  see  what  dev- 
ilment they  wuz  up  to.  When  I  wanted  to 
jine  in  the  war,  they  'low'd  I  wuz  crazy  in 
the  head  an'  unbefittin'  in  the  body." 

It  was  a  bold  stroke,  but  it  was  effectual. 
The  fierce  look  of  the  officer  faded  into  one 
of  astonishment. 

"  How  did  you  get  through  the  lines  ? " 
he  asked. 

"  I  walked,"  replied  Danny  Lemmons  ;  "  I 
jest  had  to  walk.  Them  fellers  tuck  my 
creetur  away  from  me." 

"  Go  in  that  room  there  and  wait  till  I  call 
you,"  said  the  officer. 


230  A  BABY  IN    THE  SIEGE 

"  Is  that  whar  they  jine  inter  the  war  ?  " 
asked  the  hunchback. 

"  Yes  ;  I  '11  attend  to  you  directly."  The 
officer  stepped  to  the  door  and  shut  it,  and 
turned  to  the  two  men  who  had  been  listen- 
ing1 to  the  conversation.  "  What  do  you 
think  of  him,  boys  ?  " 

The  tall  man,  whose  name  was  Blandford, 
was  picking  his  teeth.  The  short,  fat  man, 
whose  name  was  Deomateri,  was  busily  en- 
gaged in  polishing  his  finger-nails.  They 
had  served  as  scouts  with  Morgan,  and  later 
with  Forrest.  Mr.  Blandford  passed  his  hand 
through  his  long  black  hair  and  shook  his 
head.  Mr.  Deomateri  put  his  knife  in  his 
pocket,  kicked  his  heels  against  the  floor  one 
after  the  other,  and  remarked  :  — 

"  If  he  is  n't  an  idiot,  he  is  the  smartest 
man  in  this  town." 

"  I  started  to  say  so,"  said  Mr.  Blandford, 
"  but  it  takes  a  mighty  spraddle-legged  '  if  ' 
to  reach  that  far." 

"  Well,  I  '11  tell  you,"  exclaimed  the  officer, 
"  he  has  n't  grot  sense  enough  to  know  how 
to  tell  a  lie.  I  '11  keep  him  here  until  Mosely 
or  his  man  comes,  and  then  I  '11  give  him  a 
drink  and  turn  him  loose." 


A  BABY  IN   THE  SIEGE  237 

As  this  seemed  to  dispose  of  the  matter, 
neither  Blandford  nor  Deomateri  made  any 
response.  The  clerks  in  the  office  were  busy 
writing  out  reports  and  filling  out  blanks  of 
various  kinds,  and  to  these  for  a  time  the  offi- 
cer in  charge  devoted  his  attention. 

The  room  in  which  Danny  Lemmons  had 
been  placed  was  the  provost-marshal's  private 
office.  On  his  desk  was  a  rough  map  of  the 
inner  defenses  of  Atlanta.  In  the  pigeon- 
holes were  a  number  of  papers  of  more  or 
less  importance.  In  the  farther  end  of  the 
room  was  a  door.  It  was  locked,  and  the 
key  gone,  but  in  one  of  the  pigeon-holes  was 
a  large  brass  key.  Danny  Lemmons  noted 
all  these  things  with  inward  satisfaction.  He 
took  the  key,  unlocked  the  door,  and  saw 
that  it  led  into  an  alley-way.  Then  he  re- 
placed the  key  in  the  pigeon-hole,  leaving 
the  door  unlocked.  He  waited  five  or  ten 
minutes,  and  then  stuck  his  head  into  the 
outer  office,  exclaiming  :  — 

"  Don't  you  all  run  off  an'  leave  me  by 
myse'f,  bekaze  I  hain't  usen  to  it." 

The  clerks  laughed,  and  even  Mr.  Bland- 
ford  smiled  sadly,  but  there  was  no  other 
response.     Danny  Lemmons    shut   the   door, 


238  A  BABY  IN   THE  SIEGE 

seized  the  map,  and  as  many  papers  as  he 
could  conveniently  stuff  under  his  jacket  and 
in  his  pockets,  opened  the  back-door  noise- 
lessly, locked  it  again,  threw  the  key  away, 
and  turned  swiftly  into  Pryor  Street. 

After  a  while  Chadwick  made  his  appear- 
ance. He  went  in  and  modestly  inquired  if 
Captain  Mosely  had  been  there.  The  pro- 
vost-marshal, who  was  at  that  moment  talk- 
ing to  Blandford  and  Deomateri  about  their 
experience  with  Morgan,  recognized  Chad- 
wick as  the  person  who  had  been  sent  in 
pursuit  of  the  spy. 

"  Did  you  catch  your  man  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Ketch  nothin',"  responded  Chadwick. 
"  A  creetur-company  could  n't  ketch  him." 

"  Well,  we  've  caught  him  !  " 

"  Where'bouts  is  he  ?  "  inquired  Chad- 
wick. 

"  In  my  room  there." 

"  In  there  by  hisself  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  sir,"  exclaimed  Chadwick  excitedly, 
"  I  '11  bet  you  a  thrip  agin  a  bushel  of  chest- 
nuts that  he  ain't  in  there." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  him  ? "  in- 
quired Mr.  Blandford. 


A  BABY  IN   THE  SIEGE  239 

"  Bless  you,  man  !  I  seed  his  capers  in 
Sugar  Mountain." 

"  Go  in  there  and  see  if  he  's  the  man  you 
are  hunting-  for." 

Chadwick  went  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and 
glanced  casually  around  the  empty  room. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  He  's  the  man  I  'm  huntin' 
fer,"  he  said  as  he  turned  away. 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  "  asked  Deomateri, 
observing  an  expression  of  humorous  disgust 
on  Chadwick's  face. 

"  Bekaze  he  ain't  in  there,  by  jing  !  " 

The  provost-marshal  rushed  into  the  room, 
followed  by  Blandford,  Deomateri,  and  the 
whole  army  of  clerks.  He  saw  that  his  desk 
had  been  rifled  of  important  papers,  and  he 
sank  in  a  chair,  pale  and  trembling,  and  gasp- 
ing for  breath. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Blandford  to  the  clerks, 
"  get  back  to  your  work.  There  is  nothing 
to  excite  you."  Then  he  closed  the  door  and 
turned  to  the  officer.  "  My  friend,  you  will 
demoralize  your  office,  and  destroy  all  disci- 
pline. Brace  up  and  give  your  backbone  a 
chance  to  do  its  work." 

"  I  am  ruined,"  cried  the  officer.  "  Ruined ! 
That  miserable  thief  has  stolen  the  papers  that 


240  A  BABY  IN    THE  SIEGE 

I  ought  to  have  sent  to  headquarters  yester- 
day." 

"  Well,  you  nee'  n't  to  worry  about  it," 
remarked  Chadwick  dryly,  "  bekaze  Danny 
Lemmons  has  fooled  lots  smarter  folks  'n 
you." 

Ill 

But  for  Blandford  and  Deomateri,  a  great 
uproar  would  have  been  made  in  the  provost- 
marshal's  office.  That  functionary  sat  in  his 
chair  and  cried  "  Ruined  !  "  until  he  had  been 
fortified  with  two  or  three  hearty  slugs  of 
whiskey,  and  then  the  blood  began  to  flow 
in  his  veins  and  he  took  courage.  In  fact 
he  became  bloodthirsty.  He  walked  the  floor 
and  waved  his  arms,  and  swore  that  he  would 
crush  Danny  Lemmons  when  he  caught  him. 
He  would  hardly  remain  quiet  long  enough 
to  agree  to  any  rational  plan  for  the  recap- 
ture of  the  hunchback,  but  he  finally  con- 
sented to  let  Chadwick  have  his  saddle-horse, 
Blandford  and  Deomateri  having  horses  of 
their  own. 

The  three  were  soon  in  the  saddle,  and 
now  it  was  Chadwick  who  undertook  to  con- 
duct the   expedition.     By  his  direction,  Mr. 


A  BABY  IN   THE  SIEGE  241 

Deomateri  was  to  ride  out  Peters  Street,  Mr. 
Blandford  out  Whitehall,  while  he  himself 
was  to  ride  out  Pryor  and  turn  into  White- 
hall Street,  some  distance  out.  At  the  junc- 
tion of  Whitehall  and  Peters  they  were  to 
meet  and  decide  on  their  future  course  of 
action.  This  plan  was  faithfully  carried  out, 
but  it  came  to  nothing. 

At  the  point  where  they  met  the  two  thor- 
oughfares had  ceased  to  be  streets,  and 
merged  into  a  public  road,  with  a  growth  of 
timber-oak  and  pine  on  each  side. 

"Why  do  we  come  here?"  inquired  Deo- 
materi. Blandford  merely  shook  his  head. 
He  had  dismounted  and  was  leaning  against 
his  horse,  making  a  picturesque  figure  in  the 
green  wood. 

"  Well,"  responded  Chadwick,  "  we  might 
jest  as  well  be  here  as  to  be  anywhere,  ac- 
cordin'  to  my  notions.  This  road  is  open 
plum  to  Jonesboro  an'  furder.  We  've  been 
keepin'  it  open.  The  Yanks  are  bent  aroun' 
the  town  like  a  hoss-shoe,  an'  this  road  runs 
right  betwixt  the  p'ints  where  their  lines 
don't  jine." 

"  That 's  so,"  remarked  Blandford,  regard- 
ing Chadwick  with  some  interest. 


242  A  BABY  IN   THE  SIEGE 

"  Well,  then,  we  ain't  got  nothin'  to  do 
wi'  how  Danny  Lemmons  got  in.  He  's  slick- 
er 'n  sin,  an'  he  mought  'a'  run  the  picket 
lines  at  night ;  but  shore  as  shootin',  he  can't 
run  'em  in  the  daytime.  Now,  how  '11  he  git 
out  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  he  has  already  passed  here,"  Deo- 
materi  suggested. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Chadwick,  "  he  's  come 
to  town  on  business,  an'  he  '11  try  to  attend  to 
it."  Then  Chadwick  told  his  companions 
about  his  adventure  with  Mrs.  Lemmons  and 
the  baby. 

"  By  George,  Deo  !  "  exclaimed  Blandford, 
swinging  himself  into  his  saddle,  "  this  be- 
gins to  look  like  sport." 

"  For  the  baby  ?  "  inquired  Deomateri. 

"  For  all  hands,"  said  Blandford  gayly. 

"  But  ef  Mizzes  Lemmons  lays  her  eyes  on 
Mister  Lemmons,"  remarked  Chadwick,  "  the 
baby  '11  lack  a  daddy,  an'  the  lack  '11  be  no 
Joss. 

Thereupon,  the  three  men  turned  their 
horses'  heads  into  Peters  Street  and  rode  to- 
ward the  hill  where  Chadwick  had  found 
Mrs.  Lemmons.  They  rode  leisurely,  watch- 
ing on   all  sides  for  the  hunchback.     When 


A  BABY  IN   THE  SIEGE  243 

they  reached  the  point  where  McDaniel 
Street  now  crosses  Peters,  they  saw  a  woman 
coming  toward  them  waving  her  arms  wildly, 
and  shouting  something  they  could  not  hear. 

"  Ef  I  ain't  mighty  much  mistaken,"  said 
Chadwick,  "  that  's  the  lady  we  've  been 
talkin'  about.  Yes,  sir !  "  he  exclaimed,  as 
she  came  nearer,  "  that  's  her,  certain  and 
shore !  That  hellian  has  gone  an'  got  the 
baby ! "  He  spurred  his  horse  forward  to 
meet  the  woman,  who,  as  soon  as  she  saw 
him,  screamed  out :  — 

"  You  told  him,  you  sneakin*  wretch  !  You 
told  him  wher'  my  baby  wuz !  You  did  — 
you  did  —  you  did  !  " 

In  the  extremity  of  her  excitement  she 
would  have  laid  her  hands  on  Chadwick,  but 
his  horse  shied,  and  kept  him  out  of  her 
reach. 

"  What 's  this  ?  What 's  this  ?  "  exclaimed 
Blandford. 

"  Oh,  I  'm  distracted  !  "  cried  Cassy,  break- 
ing down.  "  My  baby  's  gone  !  That  slink 
of  Satan  has  took  an'  run  off  wi'  my  poor 
little  baby !  "  she  turned  to  Chadwick  and 
then  to  the  others.  "  Oh,  ef  you  've  got 
any  pity  in  you,  run  and  overtake  him.     Jes' 


244  A  BABY  IN   THE  SIEGE 

ketch  'm  an'  hoi'  'im  tell  I  can  git  my  han's 
on   im. 

"  Which  way  did  he  go  ? "  asked  Bland- 
ford. 

"  He  went  right  up  dat  away  !  "  exclaimed 
a  negro  woman  excitedly.  She  pointed  across 
the  railroad.  "  He  come  lopin'  'long  here, 
an'  he  went  right  up  dat  away.  I  seed  'im. 
I  wuz  right  at  'im.  Yasser.  Right  up  dat 
away."  She  was  both  excited  and  indig- 
nant. "  He  look  mo'  like  de  Devil  dan  any 
white  man  I  ever  is  see.  An'  de  baby  wuz 
cry  in'  like  it  heart  done  broke  !  " 

"  Oh,  Lord  'a'  mercy,  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 
cried  Gassy,  wringing  her  hands. 

"  'T  ain't  been  long,  nuther,"  said  the 
negro  woman,  "  'kaze  I  been  stan'in'  right 
here  waitin'.  I  des  know'd  sump'n  n'er  wuz 
gwine  ter  happen.  I  des  know'd  it.  Why  n't 
you  all  run  on  an'  ketch  'im  ?  I  boun'  ef  I 
had  a  boss  an'  could  ride  straddle  I  'd  ketch 
'im." 

"  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?  "  cried  Cassy. 

What  is  now  McDaniel  Street  was  not  then 
laid  off.  It  was  a  short  cut  through  a  cow 
pasture,  running  through  an  open  country, 
dotted  here  and  there  with  clumps  of   pine 


A  BABY  IN   THE  SIEGE  245 

and  scrub  oak.  Through  this  the  horsemen 
rode  at  a  swinging  gallop,  followed  at  some 
distance,  as  they  could  observe,  by  Cassy,  the 
negro  woman,  and  a  few  stragglers,  whose 
curiosity  had  been  turned  into  sympathetic 
interest.  Chadwick  bore  toward  the  left 
calkin  of  the  line  that  he  had  described  as  a 
horseshoe,  and  in  a  little  while  his  companions 
heard  him  shout  and  saw  him  wave  his  hand. 
They  swerved  to  the  right  and  rode  toward 
him,  their  horses  running  easily.  As  soon 
as  they  caught  sight  of  the  fugitive,  Bland- 
ford  rode  at  full  speed  until  he  had  passed 
the  hunchback,  and  then  turned  and  roda  to- 
ward him,  holding  in  his  right  hand  a  cavalry 
pistol  that  sparkled  in  the  sun. 

The  hunchback  saw  that  escape  was  impos- 
sible, and  he  made  no  further  attempt.  He 
ceased  to  run  and  sat  down  at  the  foot  of  a 
huge  pine,  making  a  vain  effort  to  soothe  the 
frantic  baby,  which  had  screamed  until  its 
cries  sounded  like  those  of  some  wild  animal 
in  mortal  agony.  This  and  the  sinister  aspect 
of  the  hunchback  so  wrought  upon  Bland- 
ford  that  he  leaped  from  his  horse  and  would 
have  brained  the  creature  on  the  spot,  but 
for  the  intervention  of  Deomateri,  who  was 
in  time  to  seize  his  arm. 


24G  A   BABY  IN    THE  SIEGE 

"  Watch  out,  Blandford  !  "  cried  Deoma- 
teri  in  great  good-humor ;  "  don't  scare  the 
baby.  If  it  lets  out  another  link  it  will  go 
into  spasms.  Come  here,  chicksy,"  he  said 
to  the  baby.  "  Poor  little  thing  !  Hushaby, 
now  !  "  He  tried  in  vain  to  quiet  the  child, 
but  it  would  not  be  quieted.  He  walked  up 
and  down  with  it,  clucked  to  it,  tried  to  give 
it  his  watch  to  play  with,  dandled  it  in  his 
hands,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  It  continued 
its  hoarse  and  gasping  cries. 

Meanwhile,  Chadwick  and  Blandford  were 
giving  attention  to  Danny  Lemmons.  They 
searched  him  from  head  to  foot,  and  took 
from  him  every  scrap  of  paper  they  could 
find  on  his  person.  Blandford  did  the  search- 
ing, and  he  was  not  at  all  gentle  in  his  meth- 
ods. The  hunchback  was  captured,  but  not 
conquered. 

"  Good  God  A'mighty,  gentermen  !  can't  a 
man  come  an'  git  his  own  baby  atter  his 
wife  's  run  off  wi'  some  un  else  ?  How  you 
know  she  did  n't  tell  me  to  take  an'  take  it 
home  to  Sugar  Mountain  ?  Dad  blast  you  ! 
Ef  you  '11  jest  gi'  me  a  fair  showin'  I  kin 
whip  arry  one  on  you  !  I  'm  a  great  min'  to 
spit  in  your  face  !  " 


A  BABY  IN    THE  SIEGE  247 

Thus  he  raved  as  Blandford  searched  him, 
and  even  after  his  hands  had  been  securely 
tied  with  a  tether  that  had  hung  at  Deoma- 
teri's  saddle.  Meanwhile  the  baby  refused 
to  be  comforted.  It  seemed  to  be  nearly  ex- 
hausted, and  the  hoarse  and  unnatural  sounds 
it  made  were  more  pitiable  than  its  natural 
cries  would  have  been.  At  last  Chadwick 
offered  to  take  it.  To  his  astonishment  it 
held  out  its  little  hands  to  him,  and  immedi- 
ately ceased  its  frantic  efforts  to  cry  as  soon 
as  it  found  itself  in  his  arms,  though  it  con- 
tinued to  moan  and  sob  a  little.  But  the 
child  was  no  longer  afraid,  for  it  looked  up 
in  Chadwick's  face  and  tried  to  smile  as  it 
nestled  against  his  shoulder. 

The  problem  of  the  baby  temporarily 
solved,  the  three  soldiers  would  have  made 
toward  the  city  with  their  prisoner,  but  here 
a  fresh  difficulty  presented  itself.  The 
hunchback  refused  to  budge.  He  had 
ceased  his  threats  and  curses,  and  was  now 
ominously  quiet.  If  he  had  been  stone- 
blind  and  deaf  he  could  not  have  more  com- 
pletely ignored  the  orders  to  get  up  and 
move  on. 

"  Break  off  a  hickory  liin'  an'  frail  h — 11 


248  A  BABY  IN    THE  SIEGE 

out'n  'im,"  said  Chadwick.  "  That 's  the  way 
I  use  to  do  when  my  ole  steer  lay  down  in 
the  road." 

But  Deomateri  shook  his  head.  For  sun- 
dry reasons  this  mode  of  moving  the  hunch- 
back was  not  to  be  thought  of.  While  they 
were  holding  what  Chadwick  called  a  council 
of  war,  Danny  Lemmons's  wife  came  in  sight, 
followed  by  the  negro  woman  who  had  been 
the  means  of  the  capture  of  the  hunch- 
back. 

"  Well,"  remarked  Chadwick,  —  anticipa- 
tion in  his  tone,  —  "  yander  comes  Miss 
Cassy  herself.  I  reckon  maybe  she  '11  up  an' 
tell  us  how  to  make  the  creetur'  move ;  an' 
ef  I  ain't  mighty  much  mistaken  she  '11  whirl 
in  an'  he'p  us." 

At  this  the  hunchback  showed  signs  of 
uneasiness.  He  twisted  himself  around,  as 
if  to  see  where  his  wife  was.  Failing  in  this, 
he  gathered  his  long  legs  under  him  and  rose 
to  his  feet.  He  saw  the  woman  and  then 
glanced  furtively  around  as  if  to  find  some 
avenue  of  escape. 

"  Gentermen  !  "  he  cried,  "  you-all  '11  have 
to  keep  Cassy  off'n  me,  bekaze  she  's  plum 
ravin'  deestracted  when  she  gits  mad."     His 


A  BABY  IN   THE  SIEGE  249 

voice  was  a  whine,  and  anxiety  had  taken  the 
place  of  craftiness  in  his  countenance. 

The  woman  strode  forward  steadily,  but 
not  hurriedly.  Her  face  was  pale,  and  there 
was  a  drawn  and  pinched  expression  about 
her  mouth  that  might  have  been  mistaken  for 
grief  or  fear.  Chadwick  pressed  toward  her 
with  the  baby,  as  though  proud  of  the  oppor- 
tunity to  deliver  it  into  her  arms.  But  she 
passed  by  him  with  an  impatient  gesture,  in 
spite  of  the  renewed  whimpering  of  the  child 
at  sight  of  her  ;  and  the  negro  woman  came 
forward  and  took  it  instead. 

The  hunchback  would  have  made  a  barri- 
cade of  Blandford,  but  that  blunt  soldier 
seized  him  by  his  arm  and  brought  him  face 
to  face  with  his  wife. 

"  You  mean,  sneakin',  thievin'  houn'  !  " 
she  cried,  gazing  at  him  and  breathing  hard. 
Then  she  untied  her  bonnet,  which  had  fallen 
on  her  shoulders,  and  threw  it  on  the  ground, 
her  hair  falling  loose  as  she  did  so.  Still 
catching  her  breath  in  little  gasps,  she  began 
to  roll  up  her  sleeves,  showing  an  arm  as  hard 
and  as  firm  as  that  of  a  man. 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  exclaimed  Blandford,  perceiv- 
ing what  she  would  be  at.      "  None  of  that, 


250  A   BABY  IN    THE  SIEGE 

ma'am.  Don't  scratch  him.  We  want  him 
to  look  as  pretty  as  possible." 

"  Mister  !  "  she  cried,  flinging:  her  head 
back  and  turning  to  Blandford,  "  don't  git 
me  stirred  up.  You  seed  what  he  wuz  tryin' 
to  do,  but  you  don't  nigh  know  what  he  kin 
do.  Ontie  him,  an'  he  kin  whip  any  one  of 
you,  fair  fist  an'  skull,  rush  an'  scramble." 
Her  tone  was  both  argumentative  and  appeal- 
ing. As  she  spoke  a  shell  went  spinning  and 
singing  overhead.  The  hunchback  dodged 
involuntarily,  but  the  woman  remained  un- 
moved. "  I  tell  you,  now,"  she  went  on, 
"  you  don't  know  him.  You  can't  carry  him 
to  town  ef  it  wuz  to  save  the  world.  He  'd 
hamstring  your  creeturs  an'  git  away.  You 
think  he  's  cripple,  an'  he  does  look  cripple, 
but  the  man  don't  live  that  kin  out-do  him. 
You  think  I  want  to  take  the  inturn  on  him, 
but  I  don't.  I  ain't  nothin'  but  a  woman, 
but  me  an'  him  is  got  a  score  to  settle.  On- 
tie him,  ef  he  ain't  done  ontied  hisself,  an' 
give  him  a  knife  or  a  pistol  or  anything.  I 
don't  want  nothin'  but  my  naked  ban's." 
Her  bosom  rose  and  fell  convulsively  and  her 
hands  refused  to  remain  at  rest. 

"  Don't  do  it,  gentermen  !  "  exclaimed  the 
hunchback.     "  She  '11  kill  me." 


A  BABY  IN    THE  SIEGE  251 

The  tragic  features  of  the  situation  es- 
caped Blandford  and  Deomateri,  but  the  sim- 
ple mind  of  Chadwick  recognized  them,  — 
recognized,  in  fact,  nothing  else. 

"  I  think,"  said  Blandford,  winking  at 
Deomateri,  "  that  we  'd  better  untie  this  chap 
until  he  and  his  wife  settle  this  family  quar- 
rel.    What  do  you  think  about  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  by  all  means  let  the  family  quarrel 
be  settled  !  "  remarked  Deomateri  in  a  mat- 
ter-of-fact way. 

The  result  of  this  grim  humor  could  hardly 
have  been  foreseen.  In  some  way  the  hunch- 
back had  worked  his  hands  loose  from  the 
thong  that  bound  them,  and  he  made  a  des- 
perate dash  for  liberty.  The  woman  was 
after  him  in  a  moment.  As  she  ran,  she 
drew  forth  from  under  her  apron  the  hatchet 
that  Chadwick  had  seen  her  conceal  there. 
She  was  hardly  a  match  for  the  hunchback 
in  a  foot-race,  but  passion,  hatred,  the  venom 
that  had  supplanted  anxiety  for  her  child, 
lent  swiftness  to  her  feet,  and  the  soldiers, 
who  stood  watching  as  if  paralyzed,  expected 
every  moment  to  see  her  bury  the  hatchet  in 
the  man's  deformity.  She  poised  her  glitter- 
ing weapon  to  strike,  but  at  that  moment  her 


252  A  BABY  IN   THE  SIEGE 

foot  slipped  and  she  fell  to  the  ground. 
Then  there  was  a  zooning  sound  in  the  air, 
a  thud,  and  a  deafening  roar.  A  shell  had 
burst,  as  it  seemed,  full  upon  pursuer  and 
pursued. 

The  soldiers,  watching,  saw  the  shell  strike 
and  felt  the  concussion  shake  the  ground  at 
their  very  feet.  They  saw  a  volume  of  dust 
and  turf  spout  violently  upward.  When  this 
had  subsided  they  rode  forward  to  view  the 
scene.  The  woman,  unhurt,  sat  on  the 
ground,  half-laughing  and  half-crying.  Not 
far  away  lay  Danny  Lemmons,  torn,  shat- 
tered, and  lifeless. 

"  You  all  thought,"  said  Cassy  simply, 
"  that  I  wuz  atter  him  by  myself.  But  I 
know'd  all  the  time  the  Almighty  wuz  Avi' 
me."  She  rose,  seized  the  baby,  and  hugged 
it  tightly  to  her  bosom,  where  it  lay  laughing 
and  cooing. 


THE   BABY'S  FORTUNE 


The  random  shells  flung  into  Atlanta  dur- 
ing the  siege  by  your  Uncle  Tecumseh's  gun- 
ners were  sometimes  very  freakish.  The  his- 
tory of  that  period,  written,  of  course,  by 
those  who  have  small  knowledge  of  the  facts, 
proceeds  on  the  supposition  that  the  town 
was  in  a  state  of  terror,  and  that  every  time 
the  population  heard  a  shell  zooning  through 
the  air  it  scuttled  off  to  its  cellars  and  bomb- 
proofs,  or  to  whatever  holes  it  had  to  hide 
in.  This  doubtless  occurred  during  the  first 
day  or  two  of  the  siege,  but  human  nature 
has  the  knack  of  getting  on  friendly  terms 
with  danger.  As  the  Rev.  Sam  Jones  would 
remark,  those  who  hourly  defy  the  wrath  of 
heaven  are  not  likely  for  long  at  a  time  to 
remain  in  awe  of  random  shells. 

Yet  the  freaks  of  these  random  shells  were 
very  queer.  One  of  the  missiles  (to  mention 
one   instance    out  of    many)   went    tumbling 


254  THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE 

down  Alabama  Street,  turned  into  Whitehall, 
following  the  grade,  and  rolled  through  the 
iron  lamp-post  that  stands  in  front  of  the  old 
James's  Bank  building.  It  was  moving  along 
so  leisurely  that  a  negro  lounging  near  the 
corner  tried  to  stop  it  with  his  foot.  He  was 
carried  off  with  a  broken  leg.  The  lamp- 
post stands  there  to  this  day,  having  been 
thoughtfully  preserved  as  a  relic  that  might 
be  of"  interest,  and  if  you  give  it  a  careful 
glance  as  you  pass,  you  '11  see  the  jagged  hole 
grinning  at  you  with  open-mouthed  famil- 
iarity. 

A  family  living  on  Forsyth  Street,  near 
where  that  thoroughfare  crosses  Mitchell,  saw 
a  weary-looking  Confederate  sauntering  by 
and  thoughtfully  invited  him  in  to  share  a 
pot  of  genuine  vegetable  soup,  —  a  very  rare 
delicacy  in  those  days.  It  chanced  that  the 
soldier  was  Private  Chadwick,  and  he  was 
prompt  to  accept  the  proffered  hospitality. 
Morever,  he  was  politer  about  it  than  any 
other  private  would  have  been. 

Private  Chadwick,  being  the  guest,  was 
served  first,  but,  just  as  the  plate  of  soup 
was  placed  before  him,  a  shell  came  tearing 
through  the  dining-room,  entering  at  one  end 


THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE  255 

and  going  out  at  the  other,  grazing  the  ceil- 
ing in  its  passage  and  bringing  down  a  shower 
of  plastering,  dust,  and  trash.  Chad  wick  was 
almost  as  quick  as  the  shell.  He  snatched 
his  hat  from  his  knee,  and  when  his  hosts 
had  recovered  from  their  momentary  alarm 
they  saw  him  sitting  bolt  upright  in  his  chair 
using  his  head  covering  as  an  umbrella  to 
shield  his  soup  from  the  shower  that  fell 
from  the  shattered  ceilingf. 

"  Howdy  and  good-by,"  he  said.  "  You 
might  'a'  sp'iled  my  dinner,  but  you  ranged 
too  high  to  sp'ile  my  appetite." 

"  I  can  see  why  you  are  holding  your  hat 
over  your  plate,  and  I  'm  sorry  I  did  n't  have 
something  of  the  kind  to  hold  over  mine," 
remarked  the  lady  who  had  invited  him  in  ; 
"  but  I  can't  imagine  why  you  are  sitting  so 
straight  in  your  chair." 

"Well,  ma'am,"  replied  Private  Chadwick, 
"  seein'  as  how  you  've  been  so  kind,  I  '11  tell 
you  the  honest  truth.  I  was  afeared  if  I 
humped  too  much  over  my  plate  that  the 
next  shell  'd  take  me  to  be  the  twin  of  Danny 
Lemmons." 

Naturally  this  aroused  the  curiosity  of 
the  ladies  —  there  were  three  of  them  —  and 


256  THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE 

nothing  would  do  but  Chadwick  must  tell 
that  tragic  story.  When  it  was  concluded, 
one  of  the  ladies  inquired  if  Danny  Lemmons 
had  a  twin  brother. 

"  No  'm,  not  that  I  know  of,"  said  Chad- 
wick, laughing  at  the  agility  with  which  the 
feminine  mind  can  leave  tragedy  and  fly  back 
to  inconsequential  trifles  ;  "  but  a  shell  ain't 
got  time  to  choose  betwixt  folks  that  favor." 

You  've  heard  the  story  of  Danny  Lem- 
mons and  Cassy  Tatum,  and  so  it  is  unneces- 
sary to  repeat  the  details.  They  are  all  true 
enough,  but  so  antique  is  the  war  that  they 
strike  the  modern  ear  as  lightly  as  if  they 
had  been  filched  from  a  manuscript  found  in 
the  pocket  of  a  stranded  play-actor.  It  is 
enough  to  say  here  that  Danny  Lemmons 
was  a  hunchback  —  a  mountaineer  —  who 
married  Cassy  Tatum,  and  who,  when  Cassy 
left  him,  followed  her  to  Atlanta,  making  his 
way  through  the  Federal  and  Confederate 
lines.  He  had  stolen  Cassy's  baby — if  a  man 
can  be  said  to  steal  his  own  child  —  and  was 
on  his  way  back  to  the  Federal  lines,  pursued 
by  his  wife,  by  Private  Chadwick,  and  one  or 
two  other  soldiers,  when  he  was  killed  by  the 
explosion  of  a  shell. 


THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE  257 

That  story  was  not  as  old  when  Private 
Chadwick  told  it  over  his  soup  as  it  is  now. 
Indeed,  it  was  as  new  as  any  event  that  hap- 
pened the  day  before  yesterday  can  be.  Pri- 
vate Chadwick  told  the  story  as  it  happened, 
and  he  was  sure  he  was  telling  all  of  it,  but 
if  he  could  have  joined  the  ladies  at  their 
table  a  week  later  he  would  have  been  able 
to  add  some  facts  that  would  have  caused  his 
small  audience  to  wonder  at  the  mysterious 
ways  of  Providence,  as,  indeed,  all  of  us  must 
wonder  when  we  pause  and  take  the  time 
and  the  trouble  to  think  about  the  matter, 
even  in  regard  to  the  most  trivial  and  ordi- 
nary  events. 

II 

When  Cassy  Tatum  (she  declared  over  and 
over  again  that  she  never  did,  and  never 
could  have  the  stomach  to  call  herself  Mrs. 
Lemmons)  left  her  husband  and  went  to  At- 
lanta, she  took  up  her  abode  with  an  old 
couple,  who  lived  in  a  small  ramshackle  house 
that  sat  on  a  hill  overlooking  Peters  Street. 
This  hill  was  called  Castleberry's  Hill  a  few 
years  ago,  whatever  it  may  be  called  now, 
and,  before  it  was  graded  down  to  suit  the 


258  THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE 

convenience  of  contractors  who  were  greedy 
for  jobs,  was  the  most  elevated  spot  in  At- 
lanta, and  the  most  picturesque,  too,  for  that 
matter,  for  a  fine  growth  of  timber  crowned 
the  summit. 

At  night  the  lights  of  the  town  twinkled, 
and  Cassy  Tatum,  sitting  on  the  front  steps, 
after  everything  had  been  put  to  rights,  and 
the  old  folks  had  gone  to  bed,  could  hear  the 
cracked  and  noisy  laughter  of  the  women 
who  lived  in  the  shanties  that  were  scattered 
about  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  The  place 
where  these  shanties  were  grouped  was  called 
Snake  Nation,  and  was  proud  of  the  name. 
Snake  Nation  slept  soundly  all  day,  but  at 
night  —  well,  old  Babylon  has  its  echoes  and 
imitations  in  the  newest  town  that  ever  had  a 
corporation  line  run  around  it  at  equal  dis- 
tances from  the  police  court. 

"  What  I  hear  at  night  makes  me  sick,  and 
what  I  see  in  the  daytime  makes  me  sorry," 
remarked  Cassy  Tatum  to  Mrs.  Shacklett 
shortly  after  she  had  taken  up  her  abode  in 
the  small  house  that  has  been  described. 

"  You  don't  have  to  hear  'em,  and  you 
don't  have  to  see  'em,"  remarked  Mrs.  Shack- 
lett, in   her   squeaky  voice.     "  Don't   bother 


THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE  259 

'em  and  they  '11  not  bother  you  ;  you  may 
depend  on  that." 

"  Well,  if  they  don't  pester  me  tell  I  pester 
them,"  said  Cassy,  "  they  '11  never  so  much 
as  know  that  I  'm  a-livin'." 

Mrs.  Shacklett  was  very  old,  but  time,  that 
had  played  havoc  with  her  youth,  had  in 
no  wise  disturbed  the  fluency  of  her  tongue. 
Her  voice  was  cracked  and  squeaky,  but  that, 
she  said,  was  asthma  and  not  age.  She  wore 
a  white  cap,  that  covered  her  head  and  ears, 
and  the  edges  that  framed  her  face  were 
fluted  and  ruffled.  A  narrow  band  of  blue 
ribbon,  tied  in  a  bow  on  the  top  of  the  cap, 
ran  down  under  the  fluting  and  was  tied 
under  her  chin.  She  always  wore  a  cape 
over  her  shoulders,  but  beyond  this  her  frock 
was  prim  and  plain,  and  the  cape  was  as 
prim  as  the  frock. 

Mrs.  Shacklett  was  eighty-seven  years  old, 
so  she  said,  and  this  fact  gave  a  sort  of  his- 
toric dignity  to  her  presence,  where  otherwise 
dignity  would  have  been  sadly  lacking,  for 
her  head  shook  as  with  a  tremor  when  she 
talked,  and  the  uncertainty  of  old  age  had 
taken  charge  of  all  her  movements.  Her 
mind  was  fairly  good,  but  it  seemed  to  hesi- 


260  THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE 

tate,  fluttering  and  hovering  now  and  then, 
as  if  on  the  point  of  deserting  the  weak  and 
worn  body  that  had  been  its  tenement  for  so 
long. 

And  no  wonder.  Born  near  the  beoin- 
ding  of  one  epoch-making  war,  she  was  on 
the  point  of  seeing  another  brought  to  an 
end.  The  republic  wanted  but  twelve  years 
to  round  out  its  century.  Hers  lacked  but 
thirteen  to  complete  it.  A  historian  eager 
for  facts  that  give  warmth  and  color  to  his- 
tory might  have  gathered  from  her  lips  an 
account  of  many  remarkable  events  and  epi- 
sodes that  time  has  given  over  to  oblivion. 
Of  recent  and  passing  events  her  memory 
took  small  account,  but  of  matters  relating 
to  the  past  she  could  talk  by  the  hour,  and 
with  a  fluency  that  was  out  of  all  proportion 
to  her  ability  to  deal  with  the  events  of  the 
day. 

Mr.  Shacklett,  her  husband,  was  not  so  old 
by  several  years,  and  he  was  better  preserved 
physically,  but  his  mind  was  quite  as  feeble, 
and  his  memory  more  unstable,  if  such  a 
thing  could  be.  If  he  stayed  out  of  bed  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  after  taking  his  toddy  at 
night,  he  betrayed  an  almost  uncontrollable 


THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE  261 

tendency  to  shed  tears  over  the  price  of  wool 
hats  and  the  scarcity  of  tea  and  coffee.  At 
such  times  it  was  pathetic  to  hear  his  wife 
try  to  soothe  and  console  him. 

"  Cover  up  and  go  to  sleep,  honey,  and 
you  '11  soon  disremember  all  about  it,"  she 
would  say.  "  That 's  the  way  I  do.  The 
war  can't  last  always,  nohow." 

"  Can't  it  ?  How  do  you  know  it  can't  ? 
Hey  ?  It  '11  outlast  me.  You  mark  my 
words."  In  half  a  minute  he  'd  be  asleep 
and  snoring  as  loud  as  the  feeble  muscles 
of  his  chest  would  permit. 

It  was  with  this  time-worn  and  childish 
couple  that  Cassy  Tatum  took  up  her  abode, 
when,  with  her  baby  on  her  arm,  she  ran 
away  from  her  husband.  She  had  come  into 
Atlanta  on  the  Western  &  Atlantic  Rail- 
road, and,  in  wandering  about,  searching  for 
a  lodging,  chanced  to  come  upon  this  house. 
Though  it  sat  high  on  Castleberry's  Hill,  it 
was  too  small  to  be  conspicuous,  and  so  she 
knocked  at  the  door.  She  afterward  declared 
that  Providence  sent  her  there,  for  when  she 
arrived  the  old  couple  were  in  quite  a  pre- 
dicament. A  negro  woman  who  had  long 
ministered    to    their    simple   wants    had  just 


262  THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE 

died,  and  Cassy  found  them  sitting  by  their 
cheerless  hearth,  unable  even  to  kindle  a  fire. 

She  did  not  hear  their  feeble  response  to 
her  knocking',  but  boldly  opened  the  door 
and  walked  in,  expecting  and  hoping  to  find 
the  house  vacant.  Her  surprise  at  seeing  the 
old  people  sitting  there  was  so  great  that  she 
uttered  an  exclamation,  and  this  bred  in  the 
minds  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Shacklett  suspicions 
that  they  were  long  in  recovering  from. 

"  I  declare  !  you  gi'  me  sech  a  turn  that  a 
little  more  an'  I  'd  'a'  drapped  the  baby." 

"  You  thought  we  was  dead,  did  you  ? 
Hey  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Shacklett  with  as  near 
an  approach  to  sarcasm  as  he  could  bring  to 
voice  and  face.  "You  thought  we  was  dead, 
and  you  'd  come  foraging  aroun'  to  see  what 
you  could  pick  up  and  tote  off.  You  did, 
did  you  ?  Hey  ?  Well,  we  ain't  dead,  by 
grabs,  and  nowheres  nigh  it,  I  hope.  You 
hear  that,  don't  you  ?     Hey  ?  " 

The  thought  that  they  had  been  mistaken 
for  dead  people,  when,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
they  were  so  very  much  alive,  caused  such  an 
energetic  flame  of  indignation  to  burn  in 
Mr.  Shacklett's  bosom,  that  he  rose  from  his 
chair,  and,  holding  by  the  chimney-jamb,  pre- 


THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE  263 

tended  to  be  hunting  for  his  pipe,  which,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  was  on  the  floor  beside  him. 
He  realized  this  after  a  little,  but  in  his  agi- 
tation he  found  great  difficulty  in  getting 
into  his  seat  again,  and  would  have  fallen 
had  Cassy  not  made  a  step  forward  and 
caught  him  with  her  free  hand. 

Mr.  Shacklett  was  not  at  all  mollified  by 
this  timely  aid,  but  kept  his  anger  glowing. 

"  You  see  we  ain't  dead,  don't  you  ?  Hey  ? 
'T  ain't  all  the  time  that  I  'm  shaky  this  way. 
It 's  only  because  our  nigger 's  dead.  She 
was  a  good  nigger,  —  a  right  good  nigger. 
We  raised  her  from  a  baby.  She  's  dead, 
but  we  ain't,  by  grabs  !  One  time  a  man 
come  in  the  door  there.  ,  He  was  lots  bigger  'n 
you  are,  but  we  did  n't  want  him  about,  and 
I  had  to  get  my  gun  and  shoot  him.  lie  's 
dead,  but  we  ain't.  No,  by  grabs.  We  don't 
look  like  we  're  dead,  do  we?     Hey?" 

All  this  time  Cassy  Tatum  stood  with  her 
baby  on  her  arm,  staring  at  the  old  people 
with  open-mouthed  wonder,  not  knowing  what 
to  say  or  do,  and  unable  to  frame  any  excuse 
for  her  intrusion  that  she  thought  likely  to 
appeal  to  their  childish  understanding.  But 
she  caught  a  humorous  twinkle  in  Mrs.  Shack- 


264  THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE 

lett's  eye,  and  was  on  the  point  of  saying- 
something,  when  the  old  lady  spoke. 

"  Don't  mind  him,"  she  said.  "  He  never 
shot  anybody.  Why,  Marty  would  n't  harm 
a  flea." 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't,  would  I?  Hey?"  he 
cried  peevishly.  "  Who  made  you  so  wise  ? 
Hey  ?  How  do  you  know  but  what  I  shot  a 
man  whiles  you  was  asleep  and  had  him  drug 
off  ?  How  do  you  know  but  what  I  done  it  ? 
Hey  ?  "  Mr.  Shacklett  turned  half  around  in 
his  chair  and  glared  at  his  wife.  "  Tell  me 
that  — hey?" 

"  Why,  honey,  I  would  n't  'a'  believed  it 
if  I  'd  'a'  seen  it  —  much  less  when  I  did  n't. 
You  '11  make  this  good  woman  here  believe 
that  a  parcel  of  murderers  is  harbored  in  this 
house,  and  then  she  '11  go  out  and  set  the  law 
on  us." 

This  rather  cooled  Mr.  Shacklett's  indi^na- 
tion,  but  it  still  smouldered  and  smoked,  so 
to  say. 

"  Much  I  care  for  the  law,"  he  said,  trying 
to  snap  thumb  and  middle  finger,  a  trick  he 
failed  to  compass,  though  he  made  three 
trials.  "  Ain't  we  got  no  prop'ty  rights  ? 
Hey  ?     Must  we  set  down  here  and  be  run 


THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE  265 

over  and  trompled  on  ?  Hey  ?  You  may  if 
you  want  to,  but  not  while  the  breath  of  life 
lasts  will  I  set  clown  here  and  be  run  over 
and  trompled  on." 

"  Why,  honey,  who  's  a-trying  to  run  over 
and  tromple  on  you  ? "  Mrs.  Shacklett  in- 
quired. 

"  Hey  ?  Did  you  ax  me  who?  "  cried  Mr. 
Shacklett.  "  Scores  and  scores  of  folks  if 
they  was  n't  afeard.  But  I  dar'  'em  to  so 
much  as  try  it.     I  jest  dar'  'em  to  ! " 

With  that  he  settled  himself  more  comfort- 
ably in  his  chair,  and  closed  his  eyes,  as  if 
he  were  willing  to  give  scores  and  scores  of 
folks  all  the  opportunity  they  wanted  if  they 
had  any  idea  of  running  over  and  trampling 
on  him.  As  Mr.  Shacklett  said  nothing  more, 
Cassy  Tatum  thought  proper  to  explain  her 
intrusion. 

"  The  Lord  knows  I  'm  sorry  I  come  in 
your  door,"  she  said,  "  an'  I  'd  go  right  out, 
but  I  'd  be  worried  mighty  nigh  to  death  ef 
I  went  off  leavin'  you-all  believin'  that  I  thess 
walked  in  here  'cause  you  're  both  ol'  an' 
cripple." 

Mr.  Shacklett  fired  up  again  at  this  sug- 
gestion.    "  Crippled  ?    Who  told  you  we  was 


266  THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE 

crippled  ?  Hey  ?  You  may  thank  your  stars 
if  you  ain't  no  more  crippled  than  what  I  am. 
You  hear  that,  don't  you  ?     Hey  ?  " 

Cassy  paid  no  attention  to  him,  but  ad- 
dressed herself  to  Mrs.  Shacklett.  "  I  tell 
you  now,  I  'm  new  to  this  town,  bran'  new. 
It  hain't  been  two  hours  sence  I  landed  here, 
an'  this  is  the  first  door  I  've  knocked  at. 
I  knocked  a  dozen  times,  an'  I  stood  thar 
waitin'  to  hear  somebody  say,  '  Go  off/  or 
i  Come  in,'  an'  when  I  did  n't  hear  nothin', 
I  says  to  myself,  says  I,  '  I  '11  thess  go  in  any- 
how, an'  rest  myself,  an'  fix  the  baby  uj), 
an'  maybe  thar  's  a  well  in  the  yard  whar  I 
kin  git  a  drink  of  water.'  I  never  no  more 
'spected  to  see  you-all  a-settin'  here  than  I 
'spected  to  fly.  Hit  took  me  back  so  I  did  n't 
know  what  to  say.  I  hain't  had  sech  a  turn 
in  I  dunno  when." 

"  If  you  want  water,"  said  Mrs.  Shacklett, 
"  you  '11  find  a  bucket  out  there  on  the  shelf 
and  a  well  in  the  yard.  We  ain't  had  no- 
body to  draw  us  none  sence  they  come  after 
our  dead  nigger.  I  tell  you  I  was  mighty 
sorry  to  lose  the  gyirl.  She  was  worth  twenty 
thousand  dollars  if  she  was  worth  a  cent." 

Mr.  Shacklett  turned   half   around   in   his 


THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE  267 

chair.  "  Hey  ?  Twenty  thousand  dollars  ? 
Not  in  our  money." 

"  Hush,  honey  !  I  said  paper-money,"  re- 
marked his  wife  soothingly. 

"  Hey  ?  not  good  paper-money." 

Seeing  no  end  of  such  a  dispute  as  this, 
Cassy  deposited  her  baby  unceremoniously  on 
the  floor  and  went  out  after  the  water. 

The  child  kicked  its  pink  feet  from  under 
its  skirts,  turned  its  head  toward  Mrs.  Shack- 
lett,  and  laughed  cutely.  The  old  lady 
nodded  her  head  pleasantly  and  chirruped 
as  well  as  she  could. 

Mr.  Shacklett,  hearing  a  noise  he  could 
not  understand,  called  out  for  information. 
"  Hey  ?  What 's  that  ?  What  did  you  say  ? 
Hey  ?  "  Receiving  no  answer,  he  turned  his 
head  and  saw  the  baby  sprawling  on  the 
floor.  Instantly  he  became  very  much  ex- 
cited. "  Run  and  call  her  back  !  What  do 
you  mean  by  setting  flat  in  that  cheer  and 
letting  her  run  off  and  leave  that  young  un 
here  ?  Hey  ?  Ain't  you  gwine  to  jump  up 
and  call  her  back  ?  Hey  ?  Do  you  want  me 
to  go  ?  Tell  me  that  —  hey  ?  If  I  do  she  '11 
rue  it. 

He  was    making  a  painful    effort  to    rise 


268  THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE 

from  his  chair  when  Cassy  reentered  the 
room  smiling  and  bringing  a  tin  dipperful 
of  fresh  water. 

"  Humph  !  "  he  grunted,  and  sank  in  his 
seat  again. 

"  I  reckon  you  think  I  've  been  gone  a 
mighty  long  time,  but  I  had  to  rench  out  the 
bucket  an'  the  gourd  too,  —  they  was  so  full 
er  dirt  an'  dust,"  Cassy  explained.  "  I  allers 
said  I  'd  never  let  no  niffffer  fool  wi'  nothin' 
I  had  to  put  to  my  mouth,  an'  I  '11  say  it 
ag  m. 

"  They  're  not  the  cleanest  in  the  world," 
remarked  Mrs.  Shacklett,  taking  the  dipper 
in  her  trembling  hand.     "Have  you  drank?" 

"  No  'm,"  said  Cassy.  "  Atter  you  is  man- 
ners." She  still  held  the  handle  of  the  dipper 
gently,  but  firmly,  and  guided  it  to  Mrs. 
Shacklett's  lips. 

Mr.  Shacklett  heard  this  last  remark  and 
turned  his  head  and  stared  at  Cassy.  And 
somehow  the  expression  of  displeasure  and 
suspicion  cleared  away  from  his  face.  "  I  '11 
have  some,  too,  if  you  please,"  he  said. 

"I  wouldn't  slight  you  fer  the  world," 
replied  Cassy,  and  went  after  another  supply 
of  water. 


THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE  269 

Mr.  Shacklett  leaned  sidewise  as  far  as  was 
safe  for  him,  and  touched  his  wife  on  the 
arm.  She  looked  at  him,  and  he  nodded  sol- 
emnly in  the  direction  Cassy  had  gone. 

"  What  now  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  What 's  she  up  to  now  ?  Tell  me  that  ? 
Hey?" 

"  She  's  gone  after  some  water  for  you." 

"  Humph  !  "  grunted  old  Mr.  Shacklett. 
'-  You  '11  find  out  before  you  're  much  older." 

Once  more  Cassy  came  in,  bringing  the 
water,  and  Mr.  Shacklett  drank  to  his  heart's 
content.  Then  Cassy  gave  the  baby  some 
water.  Of  course  it  had  to  strangle  itself,  as 
babies  will  do,  but  instead  of  crying  over  it, 
the  child  merely  laughed  and  wanted  to  get 
on  the  floor  again,  where,  flat  on  its  back,  it 
promptly  gave  itself  up  to  the  contemplation 
of  the  problem  that  its  chubby  fingers  pre- 
sented when  all  ten  were  held  tip  to  tip  close 
to  its  wondering  eyes. 

"  That 's  a  right  down  pretty  baby,"  re- 
marked Mrs.  Shacklett. 

"  I  dunner  so  much  about  the  purty  part," 
replied  Cassy  with  modest  pride,  "  but  he  's 
the  best  baby  that  ever  was  born.  Why,  he 
hain't  no  more  trouble  than  nothin'  in  the 
world." 


270  THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE 

The  child,  as  if  understanding  that  it  was 
the  subject  of  comment,  dropped  the  study 
of  its  fingers,  caught  the  eye  of  its  mother, 
kicked  its  pink  feet  in  the  air,  and  fairly 
squealed  in  its  enthusiastic  delight  at  being 
able  to  sprawl  about  on  the  floor  after  its 
long  imprisonment  in  Cassy's  arms. 

"  I  thess  wish  to  goodness  you  'd  look  at 
'im  !  "  exclaimed  Cassy.  "  Hain't  he  thess 
too  sweet  to  live  !  "  Then  she  switched  from 
vigorous  mountain  English  to  a  lingr)  that 
the  baby  could  better  understand  and  appre- 
ciate. "Nyassum  is  mammy's  fweetnum  pud- 
num  pie,  —  de  besses  shilluns  of  all  um  shil- 
luns.     Nyassum  is  !  " 

"  Hey  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Shacklett.  Receiv- 
ing no  answer,  he  found  one  for  himself. 
"  Humph  !  " 

At  this  high  praise  so  beautifully  bestowed, 
the  baby  kicked  and  crowed  and  had  a  regu- 
lar frolic.  Then  it  suddenly  discovered  that 
it  needed  more  stimulating  food  than  it  had 
found  in  the  tin  dipper,  and  Cassy,  seating 
herself  in  a  chair,  promptly  satisfied  the  just 
demand.  And  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  the 
baby  went  fast  to  sleep,  making  a  pretty  pic- 
ture as  it  lay  happy  in  its  mother's  arms. 


THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE  271 

Mrs.  Shacklett,  whose  age  had  not  robbed 
her  of  the  maternal  instinct  that  is  so  deeply 
implanted  in  a  woman's  breast,  looked  all 
around  the  room  as  if  remembering"  some- 
thing,  and  suddenly  remarked  :  — 

"  Lay  him  on  the  bed  in  the  next  room. 
Nobody  sleeps  in  there." 

"  Hey  ? "  said  Mr.  Shacklett,  and  then, 
"Humph!" 

"  Ef  you  reely  mean  it,  an'  think  it  won't 
put  you  out  the  least  little  bit  in  the  world," 
suggested  Cassy.  The  tone  of  her  voice  was 
serious,  and  there  was  a  touch  of  sadness  in 
it  which  the  ear  of  Mrs.  Shacklett  did  not 
fail  to  catch. 

"  Lay  him  in  there  on  the  bed,"  she  re- 
peated. 

"  Hey  ?  "  inquired  old  Mr.  Shacklett. 
"  Humph  !  " 

"  Ef  you  only  know'd  how  mighty  much 
I  'm  obleeged  to  you,  I  'd  feel  better,"  re- 
plied Cassy,  the  tears  coming  to  her  eyes. 

She  carried  the  child  into  the  adjoining 
room,  placed  it  on  the  bed,  darkened  the  win- 
dows as  well  as  she  could,  and  went  back  to 
where  the  old  people  were  sitting. 

"  Now,    hain't    there    nothin'    I    kin    do  ? 


272  THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE 

Hain't  there  nothin'  I  kin  put  to  rights  ?  " 
she  inquired. 

"  Nothing  I  'd  like  to  ask  you  to  do," 
replied  Mrs.  Shacklett,  shaking  her  head. 
"  We  ain't  got  no  claim  on  you." 

"  Why,  hain't  you  human,  an'  hain't  I 
human  ?  What  more  do  you  want  than 
that  ? "  There  was  a  touch  of  wonder  in 
Cassy's  voice. 

But  Mrs.  Shacklett  shook  her  head  doubt- 
fully. Fortunately  for  all  concerned,  Mr. 
Shacklett  roused  himself. 

"  I  ain't  had  a  bite  of  breakfast  yet.  Now 
when  are  you  going  to  have  dinner?  Tell 
me  that.     Hey  ?  " 

"  We  've  had  nobody  to  cook  for  us  sence 
our  nigger  died,"  Mrs.  Shacklett  explained. 
"  I  hated  mightily  to  give  her  ivp.  She  was 
worth  two  thousand  dollars  and  she  did 
everything  for  us." 

Cassy  opened  wide  her  eyes.  "  Well,  for 
the  Lord's  sake  !  No  bre'kfus'  an'  mighty 
little  prospec'  of  dinner  !  No  wonder  you 
hain't  able  to  walk.  It 's  a  sin  an'  a  shame 
you  did  n't  tell  me  about  it  when  I  walked 
in  the  door.  Why,  I  b'lieve  in  my  soul  you 
two    poor  ol'  creeturs  'd  set  thar  an'  starve 


THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE  273 

before  you  'd  ax  me  to  whirl  in  an'  warm 
somethin'  for  you.  I  '11  not  wait  to  be  axed. 
Thess  show  me  whar  the  things  is  an'  I  '11 
have  you  a  snack  cooked  before  you  can  run 
aroun'  the  house." 

"Hey?"  inquired  Mr.  Shacklett.  "Is 
dinner  ready  ?  Hey  ?  Don't  I  smell  meat 
a-frying  somewhere  ?     Hey  ?  " 

"  Don't  be  worried,  honey,"  said  Mrs. 
Shacklett.  Then  she  turned  to  Cassy.  "  If 
you  '11  give  me  your  hand  and  fetch  my  chair 
for  me,  I  '11  go  in  the  cook-room  and  show 
you  where  everything  is,  the  best  I  can." 

"  Did  n't  I  tell  you  I  smell  meat  a-frying  ? 
Hey  ?  "  cried  Mr.  Shacklett  as  his  wife  went 
out,  bearing  on  Cassy' s  strong  arm. 

The  larder  was  pretty  well  stocked,  as 
Cassy  discovered,  but  Mrs.  Shacklett  found 
an  insuperable  obstacle  to  all  their  plans. 

"  There  's  no  wood  !  "  she  exclaimed  de- 
spairingly. 

"  Why,  I  seed  plenty  in  the  yard  while 
ago,"  said  Cassy. 

"  Yes,  child,  but  it 's  not  cut." 

Cassy  laughed.  "  Not  cut  ?  Well,  ef  I 
couldn't  cut  wood  as  good  as  any  man,  I 
ruther  think  I  'd  feel  ashamed  of  myse'f." 


274  THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE 

So  she  found  the  ax,  cut  and  split  two 
sticks  of  wood,  and  soon  had  a  fire  on  the 
kitchen  hearth.  The  rest  was  easy.  Cassy 's 
cooking  would  hardly  have  passed  muster  at 
Delmonico's  or  any  of  the  fashionable  hotels, 
but  for  the  time  and  the  occasion  it  was  just 
as  good  as  there  was  any  use  for.  And,  won- 
derful to  relate,  Mrs.  Shacklett,  after  much 
hunting  and  fumbling  with  keys,  drew  forth 
a  package  of  genuine  coffee,  and  grudgingly 
measured  out  enough  for  three  cups  of  the 
fragrant  beverage. 

Cassy  picked  up  two  or  three  grains  and 
examined  them  with  an  interest  that  partook 
of  awe.  "  The  land's  sake  !  "  she  cried  ; 
"  why,  hit 's  the  ginnywine  coffee  !  I  hain't 
seed  none  in  so  long  tell  the  sight 's  good  for 
sore  eyes.  I  min'  thess  as  well  as  if  it  't  was 
yesticlay  the  clay  an'  hour  an'  the  time  an' 
place  whar  I  last  laid  eyes  on  ginnywine  cof- 
fee." She  held  the  green  grains  in  her  hand 
and  put  them  to  her  nose,  but  fire  had  not 
yet  released  their  fragrance. 

"  Can  you  parch  it  ? "  Mrs.  Shacklett 
asked. 

"  Thess  watch  me,"  said  Cassy  somewhat 
boastfully.     "  You    need  n't    put    in  more  'n 


THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE  275 

three  grains  fer  me,"  she  went  on.  "Hit's 
too  skace  an'  too  £ood  to  be  wasted  on  com- 
mon  folks." 

After  dinner  Mr.  Shacklett  and  his  wife 
were  much  spryer  and  in  a  better  humor  than 
they  had  been  on  Cassy's  arrival.  Mr.  Shack- 
lett himself  felt  so  much  improved  in  mind 
and  body  that  he  ventured  to  walk  out  on 
the  primitive  porch,  where  he  stood  and 
gazed  abroad  in  quite  a  patriarchal  way,  clear- 
ing his  throat  and  pulling  down  his  vest  with 
an  attempt  at  stateliness  that  would  have  been 
comic  but  for  its  feebleness. 

It  was  settled  in  the  most  natural  way  in 
the  world  that  Cassy  should  remain  as  long 
as  she  found  it  convenient  to  make  her  home 
there.  In  fact  it  was  settled  by  Cassy  her- 
self. Before  the  day  was  over  she  had  made 
herself  indispensable  to  the  old  people.  She 
looked  after  their  bodily  comfort  with  a  deft- 
ness that  they  were  strangers  to,  and  her 
thouefhtfulness  was  so  forward  that  it  outran 
and  forestalled  their  desires. 

A  few  days  after  she  had  been  caring  for 
the  old  people,  she  remarked  that  she  had 
perhaps  pestered  them  long  enough. 

"  What 's  that  ?  "  cried  old  Mr.  Shacklett. 
"  Hey  ?  " 


276  THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE 

"  I  knew  that  would  be  the  way  of  it," 
said  Mrs.  Shacklett,  and  then  she  fumbled 
about  until  she  found  her  handkerchief,  and 
held  it  to  her  face,  crying-  softly.  This  settled 
the  matter  so  far  as  Cassy  was  concerned. 
She  knelt  on  the  floor  beside  Mrs.  Shacklett 
and  petted  and  consoled  her  as  if  she  had 
been  a  child. 

Matters  went  on  smoothly  until  Cassy's 
husband,  Danny  Lemmons,  slipped  in  one 
day  and  stole  her  baby.  The  result  of  that 
performance  is  too  well  known  in  history  to 
be  repeated  here.  Cassy  pursued  her  hus- 
band and  came  back  a  widow,  but  she  wore 
no  weeds. 

There  was  only  one  thing  that  worried  the 
old  people.  For  years  they  had  been  saving 
and  hiding  all  the  gold  and  silver  coin  they 
could  lay  hands  on,  and  according  to  their 
account,  told  to  Cassy  in  confidence,  they  had 
accumulated  a  considerable  store.  When  their 
negro  girl  fell  ill,  the  old  people,  fearing  that 
she  had  discovered  the  hiding-place  and  would 
reveal  the  secret  to  some  of  her  colored  friends 
who  came  to  visit  her,  removed  their  hoard 
to  a  new  place  of  concealment.  The  girl 
lingered  for  a  week  and  then  suddenly  died. 


THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE  277 

The  event  was  so  unexpected  to  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Shacklett,  and  threw  them  into  such  a 
state  of  doubt  and  confusion,  that  they  were 
not  able  to  remember  where  they  had  hid  the 
money. 

They  had  many  harmless  disputes  and  spats 
about  the  matter,  and  they  hunted  and  hunted, 
and  poked  about  in  the  cracks  of  the  chim- 
ney, and  made  Cassy  lift  up  the  big  flat 
stones  in  the  hearths,  and  wandered  about  in 
the  yard,  until  it  made  the  young  woman 
uneasy. 

"  I  declare  to  gracious  t  "  she  would  ex- 
claim,  "  you-all  gi'  me  the  all-overs  ever'  min- 
nit  in  the  day  wi'  your  scratchin'  in  the  ashes 
and  pokin'  in  the  cracks.  You  '11  fall  over 
the  pots  an'  kittles  some  of  these  days  and 
cripple  yourself." 

Mrs.  Shacklett  had  often  boasted  that  she 
was  a  Sandedge,  and  she  made  no  conceal- 
ment of  her  belief  that  the  Sancledges  were 
higher  in  the  social  scale  than  the  Shackletts. 
Mr.  Shacklett  could  remember  this,  even  if 
he  had  forgotten  where  the  money  had  been 
hid.     Indeed,  his  mind  dwelt  upon  it. 

"  You  ought  to  know  where  we  put  the 
money.     You  was  there  ;  you  helped  to  do 


278  THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE 

it.  If  the  Sandedges  is  so  mighty  much  bet- 
ter than  the  Shackletts,  why  n't  you  mind 
where  we  put  the  money  ?  Hey  ?  Tell  me 
that.  You  're  a  Sandedge,  and  I  ain't  no- 
thing but  a  plain  Shacklett.  'T  ain't  no 
trouble  for  me  to  forget,  but  how  can  a 
Sandedge  forget  ?  Hey  ?  Tell  me  that. 
When  it  comes  down  to  hard  sense  I  reckon 
the  Shackletts  is  just  as  good  as  the  Sand- 
edges." 

But  all  this  did  no  good.  The  old  peo- 
ple failed  to  find  their  precious  store.  They 
sat  and  tried  to  trace  their  movements  on  the 
day  they  had  carried  the  money  to  its  new 
place  of  concealment,  but  they  never  could 
agree.  The  death  of  the  negro  was  the  only 
event  they  could  clearly  remember.  Each  ex- 
claimed, many  times  a  day  :  "  Oh,  I  know  !  " 
as  if  a  flash  of  memory  had  revealed  to  them 
the  place,  but  it  always  ended  in  nothing. 
Cassy  soon  became  accustomed  to  the  con- 
stant talking  and  hunting  for  hidden  money, 
and  finally  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
old  people  were  the  victims  of  a  strange  delu- 
sion. She  compared  it  in  her  mind  to  the 
game  of  hide-the-switch  which  the  children 
play.     At  the  last,  she  paid  no  more  atten- 


THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE  279 

tion  to  the  matter  than  if  the  old  couple  had 
been  a  pair  of  toddling  infants  fretting  over 
some  imaginary  trouble. 

Ill 

Now  it  happened  that  while  Private  Chad- 
wick  was  enjoying  his  soup  under  the  gentle 
auspices  of  the  ladies  who  had  invited  him  to 
be  their  guest,  his  comrades  in  the  trenches 
and  round  about  had  received  some  news 
that  seemed  to  them  to  be  very  bad  indeed. 
It  was  in  the  shape  of  a  rumor  merely,  but 
among  soldiers  a  rumor  is  merely  the  fore- 
runner of  facts.  The  news  was  to  the  effect 
that  General  Johnston  was  about  to  be  re- 
moved and  General  Hood  put  in  his  place. 
The  news  had  not  yet  appeared  in  the  news- 
papers, and  it  had  reached  the  soldiers  before 
it  came  to  the  ears  of  their  officers.  How, 
nobody  knows.  The  commander  of  a  brigade 
in  Virginia  made  the  rounds  of  his  camp 
one  night.  He  saw  considerable  bustle  among 
the  troops — fires  burning  and  rations  cooking. 
Inquiring  the  cause,  he  was  told  that  the 
brigade  would  receive  orders  to  march  before 
sunrise  the  next  morning.  The  brigadier 
laughed   at  this,  thinking  it  was  a  joke  on 


280  THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE 

the  men,  but  when  he  returned  to  his  head- 
quarters he  found  a  courier  awaiting  him 
with  orders  for  his  brigade  to  move  at  dawn. 

In  the  same  way,  General  Johnston's  re- 
moval was  well  known  to  the  private  soldiers 
before  the  newspapers  had  printed  the  infor- 
mation. The  news  was  not  very  well  received, 
for,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  they  had  been 
retreating  from  Dalton  to  Atlanta,  the  men 
were  well  enough  acquainted  with  the  tactics 
of  war  to  know  that  these  retreats  were  mas- 
terly, and  they  felt  that  their  general  was 
gathering  all  his  resources  well  in  hand  for 
a  decisive  battle  at  the  proper  moment. 

General  Hood,  as  the  successor  of  General 
Johnston,  knew  what  was  expected  of  him  by 
the  political  generals  and  the  military  editors. 
He  was  a  gallant  man  and  a  hard  fighter,  and 
he  lost  no  time  in  showing  these  qualities. 
But  the  responsibility  that  had  been  thrust 
upon  him  was  too  great  for  him.  He  did 
the  best  he  could ;  he  hurled  himself  against 
General  Sherman  and  inaugurated  the  series 
of  battles  around  Atlanta  that  has  made  the 
city  and  the  region  round  about  historic 
ground.  Finally,  he  swung  his  army  loose 
from   the    town  and   went    hurrying    toward 


THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE  281 

Nashville,  followed  by  General  Thomas,  while 
Sherman  took  possession  of  the  South's  sup- 
ply-centre and  prepared  for  his  leisurely  and 
unopposed  march  across  the  State  to  Savan- 
nah. 

When  the  city  was  evacuated  Private  Chad- 
wick  found  himself  among;  the  last  of  the 
straggling'  Confederates  who  were  leaving;. 
He  found  himself,  indeed,  with  the  little 
squad  of  riflemen  commanded  by  Jack  Kil- 
patrick,  captain  of  the  sharpshooters.  The 
line  of  retreat  led  along  Whitehall  and  Peters 
Streets.  Chadwick  turned  into  Peters  as 
much  by  accident  as  by  design,  and  was  of 
two  minds  whether  to  cut  across  and  go  into 
Whitehall,  or  whether  to  go  on  as  he  had 
started.  But  a  thought  of  Cassy  Tatum 
decided  him,  and  so  he  kept  on  the  way  he 
was  going.  Jack  Kilpatrick  accompanied 
him  for  old  acquaintance's  sake,  sending  some 
of  his  dozen  men  along  Whitehall.  They 
talked  of  old  times  as  they  rode  along. 

"Jack,  I  allers  use  to  think  you  was  the 
purtiest  boy  I  ever  laid  eyes  on,"  remarked 
Chadwick. 

"  Is  that  so  ?  "  Kilpatrick  asked  dubiously. 
He  was  slim  and  trim,  and  his  features  were 
very  delicately  moulded. 


282  THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE 

"  Yes,"  replied  Chadwick,  "  and  if  you  was 
to  shave  off  what  little  mustache  you  've  got, 
blamed  if  you  would  n't  make  a  right-down 
good-looking  woman.  And  you  've  got  a 
hand  not  much  bigger  'n  a  nine-year-old  boy. 
I  reckon  that 's  the  reason  you  draw  so  fine 
a  bead  sech  a  long  ways  off." 

Kilpatrick  smiled  boyishly,  and,  as  if  to 
show  what  a  nice  girl  he  could  be,  threw  a 
leg  over  the  pommel  of  his  saddle  and  rode 
sidewise.  Far  before  them  they  could  see 
clouds  of  dust  rising  slowly.  Behind  them 
and  a  little  to  their  left  they  could  hear  the 
Federal  guns  feeling  of  the  town,  and  occa- 
sionally a  shell  more  venomous  than  the  rest 
flew  over  their  heads,  crying  as  shrilly  as  if 
it  had  life.  This  was  particularly  the  case 
when  they  came  to  Castleberry's  Hill,  which 
was  a  more  conspicuous  eminence  then  than 
it  is  now.  Occasionally  one  of  the  missiles 
would  strike  the  brow  of  the  hill  and  fly 
shrieking  off,  or  bury  itself  in  the  red  clay 
with  a  queer  fluttering  sound. 

As  they  came  to  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
Chadwick  saw  Cassy  Tatum  standing  on  the 
porch  of  the  house  where  she  lived.  He 
waved  his  hand  and  asked  her  if  she  intended 


THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE  283 

to  remain.  Mistaking  his  gesture,  or  not 
understanding  his  words,  she  came  running 
along  the  pathway. 

"  Howdy  ?  "  said  Chadwick  ;  "  why  ain't 
you  ref ugeein'  wi'  the  rest  ?  " 

"I  declare  I  dunno,"  she  replied,  with  a 
laugh  that  was  more  than  half  pathetic.  "  I 
ouo'hter,  I  reckon.  Some  of  the  Shack- 
letts's  kinnery  come  by  in  a  carryall  soon 
this  mornin'  an'  tuck  'em  away,  whether  or 
no.  I  like  to  'a'  cried,  they  went  on  so. 
They  did  n't  want  to  go  one  bit,  an'  they 
holler' cl  an'  went  on  so  that  it  made  me  feel 
right  down  sorry." 

"  What  '11  you  do  ?  Why  n't  you  go  wi' 
'em?"  inquired  Chadwick. 

"  Well,  I  had  sev'm  good  reasons,"  replied 
Cassy,  trying  hard  to  joke,  "  an'  all  sev'm  of 
'em  was  that  the  folks  did  n'  ax  me.  It 
looked  mighty  funny  to  me  that  they  'd  let 
the  poor  ol'  creeturs  live  here  all  this  time 
at  the  mercy  of  the  world,  as  you  may  say, 
an'  then  come  an'  snatch  'em  up  an'  bundle 
'em  off  that-away." 

"  Did  they  ever  find  their  money  ?  "  Chad- 
wick asked. 

"  Not  a  thrip  of  it,"  said  Cassy.     "  That 's 


284  THE  BABY'S   FORTUNE 

the  reason  they  went  on  so  when  the'r  folks 
come  atter  'em.  Ef  they  did  n't  have  no 
money  they  thought  mighty  hard  they  had  it." 

At  that  moment  a  shell  came  hurtling- 
through  the  air.  The  pang  of  it  sounded  so 
near  that  Cassy  dodged,  and  even  the  troorjers 
glanced  quickly  upward.  Then  there  was  a 
crashing  sound  close  at  hand.  Those  who 
had  their  eyes  turned  toward  the  house  — 
and  Cassy  was  one  of  them  —  saw  shingles 
fly  from  the  roof,  saw  the  top  of  the  chimney 
sink  out  of  sight,  and  saw  a  part  of  the  roof 
itself  sway  and  fall  in.  Cassy  stood  for  an 
instant  paralyzed,  and  then  flinging  her  arms 
wildly,  and  yet  helplessly,  above  her  head, 
sprang  toward  the  house  with  a  scream  of 
anguish. 

"  My  baby  !  my  baby  !  "  she  cried.  "  Oh, 
my  poor  little  baby  !  " 

Chadwick  and  Kilpatrick  and  their  com- 
rades sprang  after  her.  As  she  reached  the 
house  one  of  the  walls  that  had  been  rmshed 
outward  by  the  falling  roof  cracked  loudly 
and  seemed  to  be  about  to  fall.  Chadwick 
would  have  dragged  Cassy  out  of  the  way, 
but  she  shook  his  hand  off  furiously,  seized 
the   wall  by  one   of  the   gaping  edges,  and 


THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE  285 

pulled  it  down.  Then  she  rushed  at  the  roof 
itelf,  seized  the  ends  of  two  of  the  rafters, 
and  made  as  if  she  would  overturn  the  whole 
affair. 

"  Wait !  "  commanded  Kilpatrick.  "  If  the 
young  un's  under  there  you'll  fetch  the  whole 
roof  down  on  him." 

This  brought  Cassy  to  her  senses,  and  when 
a  woman  is  clothed  and  in  her  rigdit  mind  she 
knows  by  instinct  that  the  best  she  can  do  is  to 
cry.  Cassy  tried  to  do  this  now  ;  but  her  eyes 
were  dry,  and  all  the  sound  that  her  parched 
throat  and  trembling  lips  could  utter  was  a 
low  and  continuous  moan  so  pitiful  that  it 
wrung  the  hearts  of  the  rough  soldiers. 

To  add  to  the  strain  and  suspense  of  the 
occasion,  a  smothered,  wailing  cry  was  heard 
somewhere  in  the  midst  of  the  ruins.  At 
this  Cassy,  instead  of  making  another  effort 
to  tear  away  the  roof  by  main  strength,  as 
Chadwick  expected  her  to  do,  fell  flat  on  the 
ground  with  a  heart-rending  shriek  of  despair 
and  lay  there  quivering  and  moaning. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this,  Kilpatrick  had  the 
forethought  to  cast  his  eye  occasionally  on 
the  portion  of  the  street  that  lay  beyond  the 
railroad.    He  now  saw  a  small  squad  of  horse- 


286  THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE 

men  in  blue  riding;  down  the  incline.  He 
ran  to  his  horse,  and  his  companions,  with 
the  exception  of  Chadwick,  did  the  same. 
As  for  the  private,  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
in  a  flash  that  he  would  rather  undergo  the 
diet  and  discipline  of  Elmira  prison  than 
desert  Cassy  at  that  moment. 

But  he  had  misunderstood  Kilpatrick's  in- 
tentions. Instead  of  mounting'  his  horse  and 
riding1  away,  the  boyish-looking  sharpshooter 
whipped  a  field-glass  from  the  case  that  hung 
on  the  saddle,  and  proceeded  to  carefully 
inspect  the  approaching  Federals,  who  were 
moving  cautiously.  The  inspection  seemed 
to  satisfy  him,  for  he  closed  the  glass,  went 
out  into  the  open  ground,  and  waved  his 
handkerchief  so  as  to  attract  the  attention  of 
the  horsemen  in  blue.  They  stopped,  and 
their  horses  huddled  together  in  the  road  as 
if  they  were  engaged  in  consultation.  Then 
one  of  them,  a  tall  man  on  a  powerful  sorrel, 
detached  himself  from  the  groin)  and  came 
riding  up  the  hill  at  an  easy  canter,  his  rifle 
glittering  as  it  lay  across  his  bridle  arm  ready 
for  instant  service. 

"  Well,  dag-gone  your  skin,  Johnny !  What 
are  you  doin'  here  this  time  er  day  ?     Hain't 


THE  BABY'S  FOBTUNE  287 

you  the  same  measly  chap  that  tried  to  duck 
me  in  the  Chattymahoochee  when  we  stuck 
up  a  white  flag1  an'  went  in  washin'  ?  Why  'n 
the  world  did  n't  you  do  what  I  told  you  — 
go  home  to  your  mammy  an'  let  grown  men 
fight  it  out  ?  You  're  a  good  shot  though, 
dag-goned  ef  you  ain't !  "  He  spoke  with  a 
strong  Georgia  accent,  but  was  from  Indiana. 

The  two  men  had  faced  each  other  on  the 
vedette  line  for  so  many  weeks  that  they  had 
become  acquainted.  In  fact,  they  were  very 
friendly.  Once  when  the  "  Chattymahoo- 
chee "  (as  the  tall  Indianian  facetiously  called 
that  stream)  divided  the  opposing  armies,  the 
advance  line  of  each  went  in  bathing  to- 
gether  every  day,  and  they  grew  so  friendly 
that  the  Confederate  generals  issued  a  pro- 
hibitory order. 

Briefly  Kilpatrick  explained  the  situation 
to  the  Federal  sharpshooter,  and  by  this  time 
his  companions  were  on  the  ground. 

The  force  was  sufficiently  large  now  to  lift 
the  roof  (which  was  small,  and  old,  and  frail), 
and  turn  it  over.  The  scheme  was  danger- 
ous  if  the  baby  happened  to  be  alive,  but  it 
was  the  best  that  could  be  done,  and  it  was 
carefully  done. 


288  THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE 

Cassy  still  lay  upon  the  ground  moaning 
pitifully  and  clutching  convulsively  at  the 
tussocks  that  came  in  contact  with  her  fin- 
gers. The  spectacle  that  the  fallen  roof  had 
hid  caused  the  men  to  utter  exclamations  of 
wonder.  Mistaking  the  purport  of  these, 
Cassy  Tatum  writhed  on  the  ground  in  an 
agony  of  grief,  and  refused  to  answer  when 
Private  Chadwick  called  her. 

The  sight  that  met  the  eyes  of  the  men 
was  enough  to  carry  them  away  with  aston- 
ishment. The  baby,  unhurt,  lay  on  the  floor 
in  the  midst  of  hundreds  of  gold  and  silver 
pieces,  and  was  trying  to  rub  the  dust  out  of 
its  eyes. 

"  Dag-gone  my  skin  !  "  exclaimed  the  tall 
Indianian  ;  "  that  baby  's  pyore  grit !  "  Then 
he  added,  with  a  chuckle,  "  Liter'ly  kiver'd 
with  it." 

Chadwick  wrent  to  Cassy,  and,  stooping 
over,  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  saying 
gently  :  "Jest  come  an'  look  at  him,  Cassy  !" 

Mistaking  his  tone  and  intention,  she 
writhed  away  from  his  hand,  crying  out : 
"  Oh,  kill  me  !  kill  me  before  I  kill  myself. 
Oh,  please  make  haste  !  Oh,  me  !  He  was  all 
I  had  in  the  worl' !  " 


THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE  289 

"  What 's  the  matter  ?  "  asked  the  tall  In- 
dianian. 

"  She  thinks  the  baby 's  dead,"  replied 
Chad  wick. 

"  Dag-gone  it !  "  laughed  the  Indianian  ; 
"  why  n't  she  git  up  an'  see  ?  " 

The  laugh  startled  Cassy  so,  that  she  sat 
up  and  looked  around,  throwing  her  hair  be- 
hind her  shoulders  and  making  an  instinctive 
effort  to  tidy  up. 

"  What  's  the  matter  ? "  she  moaned. 
"  What 's  he  laughin'  at?" 

"  I  reckon  it 's  because  you  're  worse  hurt 
than  the  baby  is,"  responded  Chad  wick. 

"  Where  is  he  ?  "  she  cried.  "  Oh,  don't 
le'  me  go  there  ef  he  's  dead  er  mangled ! 
Please,  mister,  don't  le'  me  go  where  he  is  ef 
he  's  mashed  !  " 

"  All  a-settin',  ma'am  !  "  said  the  Federal 
sharpshooter.     "  Jest  walk  this  way." 

At  that  moment  the  baby  began  to  cry, 
and  Cassy  leaped  toward  it  with  a  mother-cry 
that  thrilled  the  soldiers.  She  snatched  the 
child  from  the  floor  and  hugged  it  so  closely 
to  her  bosom  that  it  had  to  kick  and  fight 
for  air  and  freedom.  Then  she  began  to  cry, 
and  in  a  few  moments  was  calm  and  appar- 


290  THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE 

ently  happy,  but  there  was  a  haggard  and 
drawn  look  in  her  face  that  no  one  had  ever 
seen  there  before.  Chadwick,  observing  this, 
turned  to  Kilpatrick  and  remarked  :  — 

"If  she  ain't  lost  twenty  pound  in  the  last 
quarter  of  an  hour  I  'm  the  biggest  liar  that 
ever  drawed  breath."  This  was  an  exaffsera- 
tion,  perhaps,  and  yet  it  was  descriptive  too. 

"You  see  what  the  Yankee  shell  fetched 
you,  ma'am,"  said  the  Federal  sharpshooter. 

For  the  first  time  Cassy  saw  the  gold  and 
silver  pieces  that  were  strewn  about.  "  The 
land  er  the  livin'  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  That 's 
them  poor  ol'  creeturs'  money."  She  looked 
at  it  in  a  dejected,  dispirited  way.  "  You-all 
kin  take  it,"  she  went  on,  speaking  to  the 
Federals.  "  Take  it  an'  welcome  ef  you  '11 
thess  le'  me  alone.  My  baby  's  money  enough 
for  me." 

"  It 's  dag-goned  invitin',"  replied  the  In- 
dianian,  laughing,  "  but  you  '11  have  to  excuse 
us  this  time.  It  might  be  a  pick-up  ef  we 
caught  a  passel  er  Johnnies  with  it  —  but 
that  money  there  belongs  to  the  baby,  if  it 
belongs  to  anybody.  Would  you  mind  loanin' 
me  your  apron  a  minnit?  " 

Cassy   untied    her    apron   with   one    hand, 


THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE  291 

and  threw  it  to  the  Federal  sharpshooter,  and 
in  a  few  minutes  he  and  the  rest  of  the  men 
had  picked  up  all  the  coins  they  could  find 
and  tied  them  in  the  apron,  which  was  a  stout 
piece  of  checked  homespun.  The  general 
estimate  was  that  the  money  amounted  to 
two  or  three  thousand  dollars. 

Then  came  what  seemed  to  be  the  most 
important  question  of  all.  Should  Cassy  go 
with  the  Confederates  or  remain  behind  with 
the  Federals  ? 

"You  '11  have  to  make  up  your  mind  in 
three  flirts  of  a  chipmunk's  tail,"  remarked 
the  Indianian.  "  The  cavalry  '11  be  along  in 
less  'n  no  time." 

"I  don't  see  how  I  kin  go,"  said  Cassy 
doubtfully. 

"  Ride  behind  me,"  suggested  Kilpatrick. 

"  But  what  about  my  baby  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  '11  look  after  that  bundle,"  said 
Private  Chadwick.  Another  man  could  carry 
the  money ;  and  so  it  was  all  arranged. 

"  Don't  I  look  it  ?  "  laughed  Cassy,  when 
she  had  mounted  behind  Kilpatrick. 

"  Yes  'm,  you  do,"  bluntly  replied  the  In- 
dianian. "  Set  square  on  the  boss  ef  you 
can,   an'  don't   squeeze   the  feller  too   tight. 


292  THE  BABY'S  FORTUNE 

He  's  nothin'  but  a  young  thing."  Where- 
upon both  Cassy  and  Kilpatrick  blushed,  and 
even  Chadwick  seemed  to  be  somewhat  dis- 
concerted. 

So  they  rode  away,  and  when,  far  out 
Peters  Street,  Cassy  chanced  to  glance  back 
to  Castleberry's  Hill,  she  saw  that  it  was 
crowded  with  a  swarm  of  cavalrymen.  But 
somehow  she  felt  safe.  She  seemed  to  know 
that  they  would  come  no  farther,  for  a  time 
at  least.  She  and  her  escort  traveled  as 
rapidly  as  they  could,  and  Cassy,  her  baby, 
and  the  money  were  soon  safe  from  pursuit. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Shacklett  were  never  heard 
of  again  by  either  Chadwick  or  Cassy  Tatum. 
After  the  war  these  two  married  and  settled 
in  Atlanta,  and  one  day  Cassy  heard  that 
some  one  had  been  digging  the  night  before 
on  Castleberry's  Hill  for  a  box  of  gold  that 
had  been  buried  there  during  the  war.  Chad- 
wick laughed  over  the  report,  but  Mrs.  Chad- 
wick saw  no  joke  in  it.  She  was  combing 
her  son's  hair  at  the  time,  and  she  stooped 
and  kissed  him. 


AN  AMBUSCADE 


It  befell  that  in  the  first  scuffle  that  oc- 
curred between  the  Federals  and  Confed- 
erates somewhere  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Jonesboro,  when  Sherman  was  preparing  to 
swing  loose  from  his  base  at  Atlanta,  Jack 
Kilpatrick,  commanding  a  squad  of  sharp- 
shooters, was  seriously  wounded.  It  was  all 
his  own  fault,  too.  He  was  acting  outside 
his  regular  duties.  Some  excited  colonel 
called  for  a  courier  to  send  an  unnecessary 
message  to  an  imaginary  regiment.  Kilpat- 
rick,  seeing  no  courier  at  hand,  rode  forward 
and  offered  his  services. 

Mounted  on  his  black  mare,  he  made  it  a 
point  to  expose  himself.  He  could  n't  help  it 
for  the  life  of  him.  It  was  in  his  blood.  So, 
instead  of  going  to  the  rear,  he  galloped  out 
between  the  lines.  A  big  Irishman  on  the 
Federal  side,  whose  name  was  O'Halloran, 
leveled  his  rifle  at  the  horseman.     Then  he 


294  AN  AMBUSCADE 

lifted  his  eyes  from  the  sights  and  took  an- 
other look  at  the  venturesome  rider. 

"  'T  is  the  young  Johnny,  or  Oi  'm  a  nay- 
gur  !  "  he  exclaimed.  Then  he  drew  a  long 
breath.  "  Oi  was  in  wan  of  tetchin'  the 
traygur." 

But  there  were  other  marksmen  farther  up 
the  line  who  were  not  nice  in  such  matters. 
There  was  a  rattling  fire  of  musketry.  Plato, 
Kilpatrick's  body  servant,  saw  his  young  mas- 
ter reel  in  the  saddle  as  the  reins  fell  loose 
from  the  hand  that  held  them  —  saw  him 
reel  again  as  the  mare  turned  of  her  own 
accord  and  brought  her  rider  whirling;  back 
to  the  point  of  departure  —  where  he  fell 
fainting  in  the  arms  of  his  own  men. 

Kilpatrick  had  taken  many  chances  before 
and  escaped  unscathed ;  but  this  time  a  bul- 
let went  tearing  through  his  shoulder,  enter- 
ing obliquely,  and  going  out  at  the  collar- 
bone under  his  chin.  He  was  promptly 
carried  to  the  rear  by  his  men,  followed  by 
Plato,  leading  the  black  mare.  A  surgeon 
dressed  the  wound  hastily,  remarking  that  it 
was  a  pity  the  young  man  could  n't  be  carried 
where  he  might  get  the  benefit  of  careful 
nursing. 


AN  AMBUSCADE  295 

"  I  kin  kyar  'im  home,  suh,"  said  Plato. 
"  'T  ain't  so  mighty  fur  ter  whar  my  young 
marster  live  at." 

"  How  far  ?  "  asked  the  surgeon. 

"  In  de  neighborhoods  er  forty  mile,  suh," 
replied  Plato. 

The  surgeon  shook  his  head.  "  He  can't 
ride  horseback.  But  he  '11  die  if  he  's  left 
here." 

"  I  wuz  layin'  off  fer  ter  borry  a  buggy 
some'rs,"  remarked  Plato. 

The  surgeon  considered  the  matter.  "  Well, 
get  it,"  he  said  presently,  "  and  be  quick 
about  it.  I  '11  pad  him  up  for  traveling  the 
best  I  can.  It's  one  chance  in  ten  thousand. 
But  he 's  young  and  strong,  and  the  one 
chance  is  his." 

Plato  sprang  on  the  black  mare,  and  in 
less  than  half  an  hour  had  returned  with  a 
two-seated  buggy. 

"  That 's  the  very  thing,"  said  the  surgeon. 

The  rear  seat  was  taken  out,  the  cushions 
of  both  seats  were  placed  on  the  bottom,  and 
over  these  a  hospital  mattress  and  some  blan- 
kets were  spread.  On  these  the  wounded 
man  was  placed,  and  then  the  surgeon  deftly 
packed   a    dozen    layers    of    cotton    batting 


296  AN  AMBUSCADE 

under  the  shattered  shoulder.  Altogether 
Jack  was  made  as  comfortable  as  a  badly 
wounded  man  could  be  under  the  circum- 
stances. 

"  It  is  now  ten  o'clock,"  said  the  surgeon, 
looking  at  his  watch.  "  You  ought  to  have 
him  in  his  own  bed  by  six  this  afternoon. 
Kill  the  horse  on  level  ground,  but  bring  it 
to  life  in  the  rough  places.  You  know  what 
I  mean." 

"  If  he  hurts  that  mare,"  young  Kilpatrick 
declared,  with  as  much  energy  as  he  could 
command,  "  I  '11  see  him  about  it  when  I  get 
well." 

"  I  wish  ter  de  Lord  you  could  git  up  an' 
see  me  'bout  it  now,"  remarked  Plato  with 
unction.  "  Kaze  dish  yer  filly  is  sho  got  ter 
pick  up  'er  foots  an'  put  'em  down  agin  dis 
day  ef  she  ain't  never  done  it  befo'." 

Whereupon  he  climbed  back  into  the 
buggy,  looked  around  at  his  young  master 
to  see  that  everything  was  all  right,  and  then 
gave  the  mare  the  word.  Though  the  spir- 
ited animal  had  been  broken  to  harness  by 
Plato  himself,  she  had  been  under  the  saddle 
so  long  that  this  new  position  fretted  her. 
She  was   peevish   as   a   woman,   Plato    said. 


AN  AMBUSCADE  297 

The  harness  chafed  her,  the  shafts  worried 
her,  and  the  rattle  of  the  buggy  disturbed 
her.  She  wobbled  from  one  side  of  the  road 
to  the  other,  and  went  about  this  unusual 
business  as  awkwardly  as  a  colt.  Finally 
Plato  stopped  her  in  the  road  and  cut  the 
blinders  from  the  bridle.  This  was  a  great 
relief  to  the  high-strung  creature.  She  could 
now  see  what  was  going  on  in  front,  behind, 
and  on  both  sides.  She  gave  a  snort  of  sat- 
isfaction and  settled  down  to  work  with  a 
will  that  pleased  the  negro  immensely. 

Plato  knew  every  foot  of  the  road,  having 
often  traveled  it  at  night,  and  so  the  only 
stops  that  were  made  were  when  the  wounded 
man  wanted  water,  which  was  to  be  had  from 
the  roadside  springs.  The  journey  was  made 
without  incident,  and  Plato,  while  driving 
rapidly,  had  driven  so  carefully  that  when 
he  reached  home  his  young  master  was  fast 
asleep.  And  the  mare,  while  tired,  was  in 
fine  condition,  only  her  rations  of  food  and 
supply  of  water  had  to  be  cut  short  until 
after  she  had  thoroughly  cooled  off. 

Plato  had  hardly  got  out  of  sight  of  the 
smoke  of  the  firing  before  the  Confederates 
fell  back  before  the  great  odds  before  them 


298  AN  AMBUSCADE 

and  moved  aside  from  Sherman's  path.  They 
were  not  in  a  panic,  but  the  pressure  was 
too  heavy,  and  when  they  retired  they  were 
compelled  to  leave  some  of  their  wounded  in 
a  field  hospital  in  charge  of  the  surgeon 
who  had  sent  Jack  Kilpatrick  home.  The 
enemy's  skirmishers  promptly  moved  up  to 
the  position  vacated  by  the  Confederates. 
Among  the  foremost  was  a  big  soldier  who 
went  directly  to  the  rude  shelters  that  had 
been  rigged  up  to  accommodate  the  wounded. 
He  went  through  each  and  examined  the 
faces  of  the  wounded. 

"  What  the  devil  are  you  after  ? "  asked 
the  surgeon  in  a  tone  in  which  curiosity  and 
irritability  were  strangely  mixed. 

"  'T  is  nothin'  but  a  slip  of  a  lad  Oi  'm 
lookan  for,  sor,"  replied  the  big  soldier  with 
extraordinary  politeness,  considering  the  time 
and  occasion. 

"  There  are  no  wounded  Yanks  here,"  the 
surgeon  explained,  smiling  pleasantly  as  he 
glanced  at  the  puzzled,  good-natured  face  of 
the  Irishman. 

"  'T  is  a  Johnny  lad  Oi  'm  lookan  for,  —  a 
b'y  not  bigger  'n  me  two  fists.  Oi  seen  um 
gallopin'   on   a  black   horse,  an'  I   seen   um 


AN  AMBUSCADE  299 

stagger  whin  a  dirty  blacksmith  in  the  line 
give  it  to  um  in  the  shoulder,  —  the  black- 
guard that  he  was  !  " 

"  Oh  !  "  exclaimed  the  surgeon ;  "  that  was 
Jack  Kilpatrick." 

"  The  same,  sor." 

"How  did  you  come  to  know  Kilpatrick  ? " 

"  Sharpshootin',  sor.  We  had  the  divvle's 
own  time  thryin'  to  ploog  aych  ither  bechune 
the  two  eyes.  But  we  wuz  chums,  sor,  be- 
twixt the  lines.  Oi  sez  to  meself,  sez  Oi, 
*  Oi  '11  be  lookan  afther  the  lad,  whin  we 
brush  the  Johnnies  away,  an'  maybe  fetch 
'im  a  docther.'     Is  he  clane  done  for,  sor  ?  " 

"  He  '11  need  a  doctor  before  he  gets  one, 
I  'm  thinking,"  remarked  the  surgeon,  and 
then  he  told  how  Jack  Kilpatrick  had  been 
sent  home. 

The  big  Irishman  seemed  better  satisfied, 
and  pushed  forward  with  the  advancing  lines. 

II 

Plato  was  a  very  wise  negro,  considering 
his  opportunities,  and  as  he  sat  on  the  edge 
of  the  veranda  next  day,  near  the  window  of 
his  young  master's  room,  he  shook  his  head 
and  wondered  whether  he  had  acted  for  the 


300  AN  AMBUSCADE 

best  in  coming  home,  —  whether  it  would  n't 
have  been  better  if  his  young  master  had 
been  left  to  take  his  chances  with  the  rest  in 
the  rude  field  hospitals. 

For  it  was  perfectly  clear  to  Plato  that  the 
home  people  were  thoroughly  demoralized. 
"  Ole  miss,"  —  this  was  Jack's  mother,  a 
woman  of  as  clear  a  head  and  as  steady  a 
hand  as  anybody  in  the  world,  a  woman  of 
unfailing  resources,  as  it  seemed  to  her  friends 
and  dependents,  —  was  now  as  nervous  and 
as  fidgety  and  as  helpless  as  any  other  wo- 
man. "  Young  mistiss,"  —  this  was  Jack's 
sister  Flora,  a  girl  with  as  much  fire  and 
courage  as  are  given  to  women,  —  was  in  a 
state  of  collapse.  Now,  if  it  had  been  some- 
body else's  son,  somebody  else's  brother,  who 
had  been  brought  to  their  house  wounded, 
these  ladies  would  have  been  entirely  equal 
to  the  Occasion.  But  it  was  Jack,  of  all  per- 
sons in  the  world ;  it  was  the  son,  the 
brother.  Courage  fled  like  a  shadow,  and 
all  resources  were  dissipated  as  if  they  had 
been  so  much  vapor. 

The  wounded  man  had  slept  fairly  well 
during  the  night,  but  in  the  early  hours  of 
morning  his  fever  began  to  rise,  as  was  to  be 


AN  AMBUSCADE  301 

expected,  and  then  he  became  delirious.  He 
talked  and  laughed  and  rattled  away  with  his 
jokes,  —  he  was  noted  for  his  dry  humor,  — 
and  occasionally  he  paused  to  take  breath  and 
groan.  And  all  that  the  resourceful  Mrs. 
Kilpatrick  and  the  courageous  Flora  could 
do  was  to  sit  and  gaze  at  each  other  and  wipe 
their  overflowing  eyes  with  trembling  hands. 

Plato  was  sent  to  the  village,  nine  miles 
away,  for  the  family  doctor,  but  he  returned 
with  a  note  from  that  fat  and  amiable  old 
gentleman,  saying  that  he  had  just  been  in- 
formed that  the  entire  Federal  army  was 
marching  to  surround  the  village,  and,  as  for 
him,  he  proposed  to  stay  and  defend  his 
family.  This  news  went  to  Aunt  Can  dace, 
the  plantation  nurse,  in  short  order.  Plato 
was  her  son,  and  he  felt  called  on  to  tell  her 
about  it. 

Aunt  Candace  made  no  comment  whatever. 
She  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  her  pipe,  leaned 
it  in  a  corner  of  the  fireplace,  tightened  up 
her  head  handkerchief,  and  waddled  off  to 
the  big  house.  Plato  knew  by  the  way  his 
mammy  looked  that  there  would  be  a  fuss, 
and  he  hung  back,  pretending  that  he  had 
some  business  at  the  horse  lot. 


302  AN  AMBUSCADE 

"  Whar  you  gwine  ?  "  asked  Aunt  Can- 
dace,  seeing  he  was  not  coming. 

"  I  'm  des  gwine  " — 

"  Youer  des  gwine  'long  wid  me,  dat  's 
whar  you  des  gwine.  An'  you  better  come 
on.  Ef  I  lay  my  han'  on  you,  you  '11  feel  it, 
nion." 

"  Yassum,  I  'm  comin',"  replied  Plato.  He 
was  very  polite  when  he  knew  his  mammy 
had  her  dander  up. 

Aunt  Candace  marched  into  the  big  house 
with  an  air  of  proprietorship. 

"  Wharbouts  is  dat  chile  ?  "  she  asked  in  a 
tone  that  a  stranger  would  have  described 
as  vicious. 

"  He 's  in  here,  Candace,"  rejDlied  Mrs. 
Kilpatrick  gently. 

Candace  went  into  the  room  and  stood  by 
the  bedside.  The  weather  was  chilly,  and 
she  placed  her  cold  hand  on  Jack's  burning 
brow.  Instantly  he  stopped  talking  and 
seemed  to  sleep. 

"  God  knows,  honey,"  she  said  ;  "  dey  'd 
set  here  an'  let  de  green  flies  blow  you  befo' 
dey  'd  git  up  out  'n  der  cheers  an'  he'p  you." 

Mrs.  Kilpatrick  and  Flora  forgot  their  grief 
for  a  moment  and  stared  at  Aunt  Candace 


AN  AMBUSCADE  303 

with  speechless  indignation.  This  was  just 
what  the  old  neoro  wanted  them  to  do. 

"  Plato  !  "  she  cried,  "  take  de  ax  an'  run 
down  ter  de  branch  an'  git  me  yo'  double 
han'f  ul  er  dogwood  bark,  —  not  de  outside  ; 
I  want  de  skin  on  de  inside.  An'  I  want 
some  red-oak  bark,  —  a  hatf ull.  An'  don't 
you  be  gone  long,  needer.  Keze  ef  I  hafter 
holler  at  you,  I  '11  jump  on  you  an'  gi'  you  a 
frailin'.  Now,  ef  you  don't  believe  it,  you 
des  try  me." 

But  Plato  did  believe  it,  and  he  went  hur- 
rying off  as  rapidly  as  he  used  to  go  when  he 
was  a  boy. 

"  Whar  dat  house  gal  ?  "  asked  Aunt  Can- 
dace  abruptly. 

"  I  '11  call  her,"  said  Flora ;  but  the  girl 
that  moment  appeared  at  the  door. 

"  Whar  you  been,  you  lazy  wench  !  "  cried 
Aunt  Candace.  "  Go  git  me  a  pan  er  col' 
water  an'  a  clean  towel ;  I  don't  keer  ef  it 's 
a  rag,  ef  it 's  a  clean  rag."  Then  she  turned 
her  attention  to  Jack.  "  God  knows,  honey, 
ef  you  can't  git  nobody  else  ter  do  nothin' 
fer  you,  ol'  Candace  '11  do  it.  She  's  nussed 
you  befo'  an'  she  '11  do  it  again." 

Aunt  Candace's  words  and  manner  were 


304  AN  AMBUSCADE 

calculated  and  intended  to  exasperate  her  old 
mistress  and  her  young  mistress. 

"  If  you  think  I  intend  to  submit  to  your 
impudence  " —  Mrs.  Kilpatrick  began  with  as 
much  dignity  as  she  could  command  under 
the  circumstances.  But  Aunt  Candace  was 
equal  to  the  emergency.  Before  her  mistress 
could  say  what  she  intended,  the  old  negress 
rose  from  the  bedside,  her  eyes  blazing  with 
wrath. 

"Whose  imperdence?  Whose  imperdence? 
Ef  I  felt  dat  away,  I  'd  'a'  sot  down  yander 
an'  nussed  my  own  sickness  an'  let  dis  chile 
die.  He  's  yo'  chile  ;  he  ain't  none  er  mine  ; 
an'  yit  youer  settin'  dar  hol'in  yo'  ban's  an' 
wipin'  yo'  eyes,  whiles  de  fever  fair  bu'nin' 
'im  up. 

"  He  ain't  none  er  my  chile,  yit  ef  he  ain't 
got  none  er  my  blood  in  'im,  it 's  kaze  nig- 
ger milk  don't  turn  to  blood.  I  don't  keer 
what  you  say  ;  I  don't  keer  what  you  do  ; 
you  can't  skeer  me,  an'  you  can't  drive  me. 
I  '11  see  you  bofe  in  torment,  an'  go  dar  my- 
self befo'  I  '11  set  down  an'  see  Jack  Kilpat- 
rick lay  dar  an  die  !  You  hear  dat,  don't 
you  ?  Now,  go  on  an'  do  what  you  gwine 
ter  do  !  " 


AN  AMBUSCADE  305 

Here  was  defiance,  revolt,  insurrection,  and 
riot,  and  yet  somehow  Mrs.  Kilpatrick  and 
Flora  felt  relieved  when  the  explosion  came. 
Aunt  Candace  was  very  much  in  earnest,  but 
it  needed  something  of  the  kind  to  rouse 
mother  and  daughter  from  the  stupor  of  help- 
less grief.  They  began  to  move  about  and 
set  things  to  rights,  and  in  a  little  while  all 
their  faculties  came  back  to  them.  The 
house  girl  returned  with  cold  water  and  a 
towel,  and  Aunt  Candace,  entirely  recovered 
from  her  outburst  of  anger,  said  to  Flora  :  — 

"  Ef  you  want  ter  do  sump'n,  honey,  set 
on  de  side  er  de  bed  here  an'  fol'  dis  towel 
up  an'  dip  it  in  de  water  an'  wring  it  out  an' 
lay  it  on  yo'  brer's  forrerd.  HoF  yo'  han'  on 
it,  an'  soon  ez  you  feel  it  gittin'  warm,  dip  it 
in  de  water  an'  wring  it  out  an'  put  it  back 
agin.  An'  make  dat  gal  change  de  water  off 
an   on. 

With  that  Aunt  Candace  waddled  out  into 
the  kitchen,  where  she  busied  herself  making 
preparations  for  the  decoctions  she  intended 
to  brew  from  the  red  oak  and  dogwood  bark 
which  Plato  had  been  sent  after. 

To  those  in  the  house  Plato  seemed  to  be 
making  a  good  long  stay  at  the  branch,  but 


306  AN  AMBUSCADE 

Plato  was  doing  the  best  he  could.  He  had 
so  much  confidence  in  his  mammy's  skill  and 
experience,  and  was  so  anxious  in  behalf  of 
his  young  master,  that  he  took  pains  in  select- 
ing the  trees  from  which  he  was  to  chop  the 
bark.  And  then  he  was  very  particular  as 
to  the  quality  of  the  bark ;  and,  in  order 
that  there  might  be  no  mistake  about  it,  he 
chipped  off  a .  larger  supply  than  was  neces- 
sary. This  took  time,  and  when  he  was 
ready  to  start  back  to  the  big  house  he  heard 
his  mammy  calling  him,  and  there  was  a  cer- 
tain vital  emphasis  in  her  remarks  that  caused 
him  to  return  in  a  run. 

In  fact,  Aunt  Candace  had  infused  new 
energy  into  everybody  about  the  place.  The 
little  negroes  that  usually  swarmed  about  the 
yard  prudently  went  to  play  in  the  barn,  but 
they  were  careful  not  to  make  a  noise  that 
would  prevent  them  from  hearing  her  voice 
if  Aunt  Candace  should  chance  to  want  one 
of  them  to  run  on  an  errand.  The  plantation 
medicine  chest  was  ransacked  in  search  of 
something,  Mrs.  Kilpatrick  and  her  daughter 
knew  not  what.  At  any  rate  the  search  was 
a  relief.  They  no  longer  sat  supinely  in  the 
midst  of  their  grief.     They  made  little  jour- 


AN  AMBUSCADE  307 

neys  to  the  kitchen,  where  Aunt  Candace  was 
brewing  her  simples,  and  she  watched  them 
out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye. 

"  S'posen  he  'd  'a'  got  kilt  dead,"  she  re- 
marked; "  what'd  you  'a'  done  den?  Better 
go  'long  an'  set  down  an'  nuss  yo'se'ves. 
I  '11  nuss  Jack  Kilpatrick.  An'  't  won't  be 
de  fust  time  I  've  nuss'd  'im  all  by  myse'f 
needer." 

Scolding  and  domineering,  Aunt  Candace 
went  ahead  with  her  brewing,  and  in  a  little 
while  had  a  crock  of  dogwood- bark  tea 
ready,  as  well  as  a  red-oak  bark  poultice. 
Her  remedies  were  simple,  but  she  had  the 
greatest  faith  in  them.  She  applied  the 
poultice  to  the  wound  on  the  shattered  collar- 
bone, and  compelled  Jack  to  drink  a  tumbler- 
ful of  the  dogwood-bark  tea.  The  dose  was 
a  heroic  one,  and  bitter  in  proportion.  To  a 
certain  extent  both  remedies  were  efficacious. 
The  poultice  was  a  cooling  astringent,  and 
the  tea  allayed  the  fever,  —  for  somewhere  in 
the  dogwood-tree,  between  root  and  blossom, 
there  lies  the  active  principle  of  quinine. 
Jack  fell  into  a  deep  sleep,  from  which  he  was 
only  aroused  by  one  of  those  remarkable 
events  that  could  have  occurred  in  no  country 
but  the  American  republic. 


308  AN  AMBUSCADE 

III 

When  Plato  started  back  to  the  house 
from  the  spring  branch,  where  he  had  been 
chopping  the  red-oak  and  dogwood  bark,  he 
was  in  such  a  hurry  that  he  forgot  his  axe, 
and  when  he  wanted  it  again,  a  few  hours 
afterwards,  he  hunted  all  over  the  yard  for  it, 
until  he  suddenly  remembered  where  he  had 
left  it.  He  started  after  it,  but  as  he  was 
going  down  the  spring  branch  he  heard  a 
clatter  in  the  road  to  the  left,  and,  looking 
in  that  direction,  saw  two  Federal  cavalry- 
men galloping  by. 

"Ah-yi!"  he  exclaimed,  as  if  by  that 
means  he  could  find  vent  for  surprise,  and 
slipped  behind  a  tree.  The  day  was  raw  and 
drizzly,  and  there  was  no  movement  on  the 
plantation.  The  negroes  were  in  their  cabins, 
the  horses  were  in  their  stable,  the  mules 
were  standing  quietly  under  the  long  shed  in 
the  lot,  and  even  the  sheep  that  were  in  the 
ginhouse  pasture  were  huddled  together  under 
shelter,  nibbling  at  a  pile  of  waste  cotton  seed. 
The  riders  were  couriers,  and  Plato,  observ- 
ing them,  saw  that  they  did  not  pursue  the 
road  to  the  village,  but  turned  off  squarely  to 


AN  AMBUSCADE  309 

the  right.  For  Sherman  had  already  begun 
his  famous  march  to  the  sea.  He  had  be<nin 
it,  indeed,  before  the  little  skirmish  in  which 
Jack  Kilpatrick  had  been  wounded,  and, 
though  Plato  had  no  knowledge  of  the  fact, 
he  traveled  with  his  young  master  for  fifteen 
miles  between  the  parallel  lines  of  the  ad- 
vancing army,  Slocum's  corps  being  one  of 
the  lines  and  Howard's  corps  another. 

Ignorant  of  this  fact,  Plato  was  very  much 
surprised  to  see  the  Federals  riding  by.  "  Dey 
er  pursuin'  right  on  atter  us,"  he  remarked 
aloud.  "  A  little  mo'  en'  dey  'd  'a'  cotch  us, 
sho.  An'  dey  may  ketch  us  yit.  Kaze 
Marse  Jack  can't  hide  out,  an'  I  know  mighty 
well  I  ain't  gwine  nowhar  whiles  Marse  Jack 
got  ter  stay."  He  turned  back  and  went  to 
the  big  house,  but  once  there  he  remembered 
his  axe  and  started  after  it  aorain. 

He  found  it  where  he  had  left  it.  He 
picked  it  up  and  flung  it  across  his  shoulder. 
As  he  raised  his  head  he  saw  a  big  Federal 
soldier  sitting  on  a  horse  fifty  yards  away, 
watching  him  intently.  "  Name  er  Gawd  !  " 
he  exclaimed.  He  stared  at  the  soldier,  un- 
decided whether  to  run  or  to  stand  where  he 
was.     Then  he  saw  the  soldier  beckoning  to 


310  AN  AMBUSCADE 

him,  and  he  made  a  great  pretense  of  hurry- 
ing1 forward. 

"  'T  is  the  name  of  the  place  Oi  'm  afther," 
said  the  soldier. 

"Suh?"  exclaimed  Plato. 

"  Who  lives  in  the  house  ferninst  us  ?  " 

"  Ole  Miss  an'  Miss  Floe,"  replied  Plato. 

"  Ah,  to  the  divvle  wit'  ye ! "  exclaimed 
the  soldier  impatiently.  "  'T  is  the  name 
Oi  'm  axin'  ye." 

"  Dis  de  Kilpatrick  place,  suh." 

"  Where  's  the  wounded  Johnny  ?  " 

"Who?  Marse  Jack?"  inquired  Plato 
cautiously.  "  What  make  you  ax  dat  ? 
Marse  Jack  ain't  never  hnrted  you,  is  he  ?  " 

"Is  he  killt  intirely?"  the  soldier  persisted, 
misled  by  the  serious  aspect  of  the  negro's 
countenance. 

"How  you  know  he  been  hurted?"  Plato 
asked. 

"  Oi  seen  'im  whin  the  ball  pasted  'im,"  re- 
plied the  soldier,  with  a  careless  toss  of  his 
head.     "  Where  've  ye  tuck  'im  ?  " 

"  What  you  gwine  do  wid  'im  when  you 
fin'  'im?  You  ain't  gwine  ter  take  'im  ter 
prison  ner  nothin'  er  dat  kin',  is  you  ?  " 

"  Listen   at   the    gab  av   'im ! "   exclaimed 


AN  AMBUSCADE  311 

the  soldier  impatiently.  "  Is  the  Johnny 
dead?" 

"Who?  Marse  Jack?  No,  suh.  He 
hurted  mighty  bad,  but  he  ain't  daid  yit. 
Ain't  you  one  er  dem  ar  gentermens  what  I 
seed  tradin'  wid  Marse  Jack  an'  de  yuthers 
out  dar  twix  de  camps  ?  " 

"  Upon  me  soul,  ye  're  a  long  time  makin' 
that  out.     Oi  'm  that  same  peddler." 

Plato's  honest  face  broadened  into  a  grin. 
"  Marse  Jack  up  dar  at  de  house,"  he  said  in 
a  confidential  tone.  "  Ef  his  min'  done  come 
back  I  speck  he  'd  be  mo'  dan  glad  ter  see 
you.  But  I  'm  skeer'd  ter  kyar'  you  up  dar, 
kaze  I  dunner  what  ole  Miss,  an'  Miss  Floe, 
an'  mammy  '11  say." 

"  Trust  me  for  that  same,"  remarked  the 
soldier.  "  Take  me  down  this  fince,  will  ye, 
an'  tell  'em  at  the  house  that  private  O'Hal- 
loran,  av  the  sharpshooters,  has  taken  the 
liberty  for  to  call  on  the  lad." 

The  negro  proceeded  to  make  a  gap  in  the 
worm  fence,  remarking  as  he  did  so  :  "I  be 
bless'  ef  I  don't  b'lieve  dat  ar  nag  what  you 
er  settin'  on  is  Marse  'Lisha  Perryman's  sad- 
dle-hoss." 

"  Like  as  not,"  said  private  O'Halloran 
calmly. 


312  AN  AMBUSCADE 

"  Mon  !  won't  he  rip  an'  r'ar  when  he  miss 
dat  ar  hoss  ?  Ef  't  wuz  me,  an'  I  had  tooken 
dat  ar  hoss,  I  'd  be  gallopin'  out'n  de  county 
by  dis  time.  Kaze  Marse  'Lisha  is  de  mos' 
servigrous  white  man  in  deze  parts.  He 
mighty  nigh  ez  servigrous  ez  ol'  marster  use 
ter  be  in  his  primy  days.  I  'm  tellin'  you  de 
naked  trufe,  mon  !  " 

Private  O'Halloran  laughed  by  way  of 
reply,  as  he  rode  through  the  gap  Plato  had 
made  in  the  fence. 

"  Oi  '11  go  up  an'  put  me  two  eyes  on  'im," 
said  O'Halloran,  as  he  turned  his  horse's 
head  towards  the  house,  "  an'  see  the  look  av 
'im  be  the  toime  the  Twentieth  Army  Corps 
comes  trudgin'  by." 

"  Yasser,"  replied  Plato,  taking  another 
critical  view  of  the  steed  the  big  Irishman 
was  riding.     Then  he  laughed. 

"  Fwhat  's  the  joke?"  inquired  O'Halloran. 

"  'T  ain't  no  joke  ef  you  '11  hear  my  horn," 
said  Plato.  "  I  wuz  des  thinkin'  how  Marse 
'Lisha  Perryman  gwine  ter  cut  up  when  he 
fin'  out  his  saddle-hoss  been  rid  off.  I  dun- 
ner  whever  he  '11  kill  a  Yankee  er  a  nigger, 
er  whever  he  '11  go  out  an'  shoot  a  steer.  He 
the  most  servigrous  man  /  ever  see,  an'  he 


AN  AMBUSCADE  313 

sho  did  like  dat  ar  hoss.  You  er  de  onliest 
white  man  what  been  straddle  un  'im  ceppin' 
Marse  'Lisha.  I  ain't  gwine  to  be  nowhars 
'roun'  when  he  come  huntin'  dat  hoss." 

The  horse  evidently  knew  all  about  the 
Kilpatrick  place,  for  he  went  directly  to  the 
hitching-post  and  there  stopped.  As  O'Hal- 
loran  dismounted,  Plato  took  the  halter  strap, 
dexterously  fastened  it  to  the  ring  in  the  post, 
and  promptly  disappeared.  He  evidently  had 
no  idea  of  being  made  an  interested  party  in 
the  scene  that  he  supposed  would  take  place 
when  the  big  Irishman  loomed  up  before 
the  astonished  gaze  of  his  mistress  and  her 
daughter. 

But  the  scene  he  anticipated  did  not  occur. 
It  is  the  unexpected  that  happens,  and  it 
happened  in  this  instance.  O'Halloran  went 
to  the  door  that  Plato  had  indicated,  removed 
his  waterproof  coat,  shook  off  the  shining 
rain  mist,  and  laid  it  on  a  convenient  bench 
seat.  Then  he  took  off  his  hat,  roached  back 
his  hair,  and  knocked  confidently  at  the  door. 
He  was  quite  a  presentable  figure  as  he  stood 
there,  considering  all  the  circumstances.  His 
look  of  expectation  had  a  genial  smile  for  its 
basis,  and  there  was  a  large  spark  of  humor 
glistening  in  his  fine  black  eyes. 


314  AN  AMBUSCADE 

It  chanced  that  Aunt  Candace  came  to  the 
door  in  response  to  the  summons.  She 
opened  it  wide  with  a  frown  on  her  face,  but 
when  she  saw  the  Federal  soldier  looming  up 
she  threw  up  her  hands  with  a  loud  cry. 

"  My  Gawd  !  Dey  got  us  !  Dey  got  us  !  " 
Then  recovering  herself  somewhat,  she  planted 
herself  in  the  doorway.  "  G'way  fum  here  ! 
G'way  fum  here,  I  tell  you  !  Dey  ain't  no- 
body on  de  place  but  wimmen  an'  childern, 
nohow  !  Go  on  off,  man  !  Don't  you  hear 
me?" 

"  Aisy,  aisy  !  Will  ye  be  aisy,  now  ?  "  said 
O'Halloran,  when  he  could  get  in  a  word 
edgewise.     "  Where  's  the  lady  ?  " 

"  What  you  want  wid  her  ? "  cried  Aunt 
Candace.  "  G'way  fum  here  !  "  She  stood 
like  a  tiger  at  bay. 

At  that  moment  Mrs.  Kilpatrick  appeared 
in  the  hallway.  The  sight  of  the  soldier  in 
blue  paralyzed  all  her  faculties  except  mem- 
ory of  the  fact  that  her  son  lay  wounded  not 
forty  feet  away.  Making  a  supreme  effort  at 
self-control,  she  stood  before  the  big  Irish- 
man with  white  face  and  clasped  hands. 
Something  in  her  attitude  touched  the  sol- 
dier.    He  bent  low  before  her. 


AN  AMBUSCADE  315 

"  No  harm  to  you,  mum,  beggin'  your 
pardon.  Oi  says  to  a  nagur  in  passin', 
'  Whose  iligant  place  is  this?'  <  The  Kil- 
pathrick  place,'  says  he.  '  Upon  me  sowl,' 
says  Oi,  '  't  will  be  no  harm  for  to  call  in  an' 
see  the  b'y.'     How  is  he,  mum  ?  " 

"  Do  you  know  my  son  ?  "  Her  voice  was 
so  harsh  and  strained  that  she  hardly  recog- 
nized it.  The  big  Irishman  had  no  need  to 
answer.  The  door  through  which  the  lady 
had  entered  the  hall  was  thrown  open,  and  a 
weak  voice  called  out :  — 

"  If  that  is  O'Halloran,  let  him  come  in." 

"  'Tis  that  same,"  replied  the  Federal  sol- 
dier with  a  smile.  But  he  waited  for  the 
lady  to  lead  the  way,  and  then  followed  her. 
On  the  bed  lay  Jack  Kilpatrick,  and  near  the 
fireplace  stood  his  sister  Flora,  statuesque 
and  scornful.  O'Halloran  bowed  to  her  as 
politely  as  he  knew  how,  but  her  lip  curled 
disdainfully.  An  expression  of  perplexity 
crept  into  the  honest,  smiling  face  of  the 
Irishman  ;  but  this  quickly  changed  into  one 
of  genuine  pleasure  when  he  caught  sight  of 
young  Kilpatrick's  face. 

"  Why,  ye  're  as  snug  as  a  bug  in  a  rug !  " 
exclaimed  O'Halloran  cheerily.    "  Which  paw 


316  AN  AMBUSCADE 

shall  Oi  squeeze?  The  lift?  Well,  'tis 
nearest  the  gizzard.  Ah  !  but  't  was  a  close 
shave  ye  had,  me  b'y.  Oi  seen  ye  comin' 
betwixt  the  lines,  an'  says  Oi,  '  Fwhat  the 
divvle  ails  the  lad  ?  '  'T  was  the  very  word 
Oi  said.  Oi  seen  ye  roll  in  the  saddle,  an' 
thin  Oi  put  me  rifle  to  me  shoulder.  Says 
Oi,  '  If  the  nag  runs  wild  an'  the  lad  falls 
an'  his  fut  hangs,  Oi'll  fetch  the  craycher 
down.'  But  divvle  a  run  —  beggin'  pardin 
of  the  ladies.  An'  so  ye 're  here,  me  b'y, 
more  worried  than  hurt !  " 

Jack  Kilpatrick  was  really  glad  to  see  his 
friend,  the  enemy,  and  said  so  as  heartily  as 
he  could.  O'Halloran  drew  a  chair  by  the 
bed,  and,  in  the  midst  of  his  talk,  which  was 
as  cheerful  as  he  could  make  it,  studied  the 
young  Confederate's  condition.  He  made  the 
wounded  man  fill  his  lungs  with  air  several 
times,  and  placed  his  ear  close  to  the  expand- 
ing chest.  Then  he  sat  twirling  his  thumbs 
and  looking  at  the  bed-quilt,  which  was  home- 
made and  of  a  curious  pattern.  Finally  he 
turned  to  Mrs.  Kilpatrick  with  a  more  seri- 
ous air  than  he  had  yet  displayed. 

"  He  wants  a  surgeon,  mum.  'T  is  an 
aisy   case  wit'  a  surgeon  standin'   'roun'  an' 


AN  AMBUSCADE  317 

puckerin'  his  forrerd ;  Oi  've  seen  'em  do  't 
many 's  the  toime.  Wan  surgeon  in  the  nick 
av  toime  is  like  to  do  more  good  than  forty 
docthers  at  a  funer'l." 

"  We  can  get  no  surgeon ;  that  is  out  of  the 
question,"  said  the  lady  curtly  and  positively. 

Onc«  more  O'Halloran  fell  to  studying  the 
pattern  of  the  quilt.  He  even  went  so  far  as 
to  count  the  pieces  in  one  of  the  figures. 
Flora  and  her  mother  resented  this  as  a  piece 
of  unnecessary  impertinence,  and  moved  rest- 
lessly about  the  room. 

"  That  is  what  they  call  the  broken  stove 
lid,"  explained  Jack,  seeing  the  big  Irish- 
man's apparent  interest  in  the  quilt  pattern. 

"  Now  is  that  so  ? "  said  O'Halloran. 
"  Upon  me  sowl  it  looks  as  if  the  whole  chim- 
ley  had  tumbled  down"  on  top  av  it.  Faith  ! 
Oi  have  it ! "  he  exclaimed  with  a  laugh. 
"  Oi  '11  rope  in  the  chap  that  drinched  me 
the  same  as  if  Oi  was  a  sick  horse.  'T  will 
be  somethin'  tray  men  jous,  upon  me  sowl ! 
He  's  a  bloomin'  pillmaker  from  wistern  New 
York." 

The  big  Irishman  paused  and  hugged  him- 
self with  his  Samson-like  arms  as  he  bent 
over  with  laughter. 


318  AN  AMBUSCADE 

"  Bedad,  't  will  be  the  joke  of  the  day  !  " 
he  exclaimed.  "  'T  is  all  laid  out  as  plain  as 
the  nose  on  me  face.  D'  ye  mind  this  now, 
me  b'y  :  'T  is  no  Kilpatrick  ye  are,  for  ye  We 
thried  to  kill  me  many 's  the  odd  time.  Ye  're 
from  Hornellsville,  —  mind  that  now  ;  upon 
me  sowl,  'tis  the  nub  av  the  whole  b^pomin' 
business." 

"  Where  's  Hornellsville  ?  "  asked  Jack. 

"  In  York  State,  bedad.  Ye  're  Cap'n  Jar- 
vis,  av  Hornellsville.  Ye  know  the  Finches 
an'  the  Purvises,  but  ye  're  too  wake  for  to 
argy  till  he  fixes  ye  foine  an'  doses  ye." 

Mrs.  Kilpatrick  uttered  a  protest  that  would 
have  been  indignant,  but  for  her  apprehen- 
sions in  regard  to  Jack. 

"  He  's  a  darlin'  of  a  surgeon,  mum,"  ex- 
plained O'Halloran.  "  'T  is  a  business  he 
knows  loike  a  book.  Nayther  is  he  bad 
lookin'.  The  loikes  av  him  is  hard  for  to 
come  up  wit'  in  the  Twintieth  Army  Corps  — 
clane  as  a  pache  an'  smilin'  as  a  basket  av 
chips.  'T  will  be  no  harm  to  him  for  to  fix 
an'  dose  ye.  Two  days  av  fixin'  will  put  ye 
right,  an'  then  he  kin  ketch  his  rijmint." 

"  Scoop  him  up  and  fetch  him  in,"  said 
Jack,  and  to  this  the  mother  and  daughter 


AN  AMBUSCADE  319 

made  no  serious  objection,  bitter  as  their  pre- 
judices were. 

Among  his  own  belongings  O'Halloran 
was  carrying  the  haversack  of  his  captain,  in 
which  he  knew  there  was  a  coat.  This  he 
took  out,  carried  into  the  house,  and  hung  on 
the  back  of  a  chair  near  Jack's  bed.  Then 
he  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  to  the  big 
gate,  where  he  knew  the  Twentieth  Corps 
would  shortly  pass. 

He  was  just  in  time,  too,  for  a  party  of 
foragers  was  engaged  in  gathering  up  the 
horses,  mules,  and  cattle  that  were  on  the 
place.  These  he  dispersed  in  a  twinkling, 
by  explaining  that  the  ladies  of  the  house 
were  engaged  in  caring  for  a  Federal  captain, 
who  had  been  compelled  by  his  wounds  to 
seek  refuge  there.  This  explanation  O'Hal- 
loran made  to  all  the  would-be  foragers  who 
came  that  way,  with  the  result  that  the  stock 
on  the  place  remained  unmolested.  In  a  lit- 
tle while  the  Twentieth  Army  Corps  began  to 
march  by,  and  many  an  acquaintance  saluted 
the  big  Irishman  as  he  sat  serenely  on  his 
borrowed  horse  near  the  entrance  to  the  wide 
avenue.  The  troops  going  by  supposed  as  a 
matter  of  course  that  he  had  been  stationed 
there. 


320  AN  AMBUSCADE 


III 


To  Mrs.  Kilpatrick  and  her  daughter, 
watching  this  vast  procession  from  behind 
the  curtains  of  the  windows,  the  spectacle 
was  by  no  means  an  enchanting  one.  Their 
belief  in  the  righteousness  of  the  Southern 
cause  amounted  to  a  passion  ;  it  was  almost  a 
part  of  their  religion,  and  they  prayed  for  its 
success  with  a  fervor  impossible  to  describe. 
It  was  a  cause  for  which  they  were  prepared 
to  make  any  sacrifice,  and  it  is  no  wonder 
that  they  watched  the  army  go  by  with  pal- 
lid and  grief-stricken  faces.  Their  despair 
would  have  been  of  a  blacker  hue  if  they  had 
not  remembered  that,  away  off  in  Virginia, 
Robert  Lee  was  mustering  his  army  against 
the  hosts  that  were  opposing  him. 

The  spectacle  of  this  army  in  blue  march- 
ing by  was  so  strange  —  so  impossible,  in  fact 
—  that  their  amazement  would  not  have  been 
materially  increased  if  the  whole  vast  array 
had  been  lifted  in  air  by  a  gust  of  wind,  to 
dissolve  and  disappear  in  the  swaying  and 
whirling  mist. 

Presently  they  saw  O'Halloran  spur  his 
horse  toward  the  moving  files,  and  touch  his 


AN  AMBUSCADE  321 

cap  by  way  of  salute.  Then  another  horse- 
man, after  some  delay,  detached  himself  from 
the  ranks,  joined  the  big  Irishman,  and  the 
two  came  up  the  avenue  together.  Mrs.  Kil- 
patrick,  by  an  instinct  rather  than  an  impulse 
of  hospitality,  prepared  to  go  to  the  door  to 
receive  them,  pausing  in  Jack's  room  to  see 
that  everything  was  ship-shape.  As  the  two 
came  up  the  broad,  high  steps,  and  delayed 
a  moment  on  the  veranda  to  remove  their 
waterproofs,  Flora,  peeping  from  behind  the 
red  curtains  in  the  parlor,  saw  that  the  sur- 
geon was  both  young  and  stalwart.  His 
brown  hair  was  cut  short,  and  the  fierce  curl 
of  his  mustache  was  relieved  by  a  pair  of  gold 
spectacles,  that  gave  a  benign  and  somewhat 
ministerial  air  to  features  that  were  otherwise 
firm  and  soldier-like.  He  was  not  as  tall  as 
the  Irishman,  —  few  men  in  all  that  army 
were, —  but  he  bore  himself  more  easily  and 
gracefully. 

When  O'Halloran  knocked  at  the  door, 
Mrs.  Kilpatrick  opened  it  without  a  moment's 
delay. 

"  'T  is  the  surgeon,  mum,  to  see  the  cap- 
tain." 

"  Good    morning,    madam.       Dr.    Pruden. 


322  AN  AMBUSCADE 

The  man  here  tells  me  that  Captain  Jarvis  of 
a  New  York  regiment  lies  wounded  in  this 
house."  He  held  his  cap  in  his  hand,  and  his 
bearing  was  all  that  was  affable  and  polite. 

"  Come  in,  sir,"  said  the  lady,  inclining  her 
head  slightly. 

He  stepped  into  the  hallway,  O'Halloran 
following  with  a  broad  grin  on  his  face  that 
disappeared  as  by  magic  whenever  the  sur- 
geon glanced  in  his  direction.  Mrs.  Kilpat- 
rick  led  the  way  to  Jack's  room,  to  which 
Flora  had  flitted  when  the  knock  came  at  the 
door.  Dr.  Pruden  acknowledged  her  pre- 
sence with  a  bow  and  then  turned  his  atten- 
tion to  his  patient. 

"  I  'm  sorry  to  see  you  on  your  back,  Cap- 
tain Jarvis,"  he  said  sympathetically.  "  And 
yet,  with  such  quarters  and  such  nurses,  I  dare 
say  you  are  better  off  than  the  rest  of  us." 

"  Yes  —  well  off,"  replied  Jack  in  a  weak 
voice  that  was  not  borrowed  for  the  occasion. 
In  fact,  the  surgeon  had  not  arrived  any  too 
soon.  The  wounded  man  had  grown  feebler, 
and  his  condition  was  not  helped  by  an  occa- 
sional fit  of  couo'hina1  that  racked  his  whole 
body  and  threatened  to  tear  his  wounds  open 
afresh. 


AN  AMBUSCADE  323 

Dr.  Pruden  wiped  his  hands  on  a  towel 
that  chanced  to  be  hanging  on  a  chair  near 
by,  and  then  proceeded  to  examine  into  the 
wounded  man's  condition. 

"  You  may  thank  your  stars,  young  man," 
he  said  after  a  while,  "  that  these  ladies  were 
charitable  enough  to  forget  the  color  of  your 
coat  there  and  give  you  the  shelter  and  the 
care  and  attention  that  were  absolutely  neces- 
sary." 

The  note  of  unaffected  gratitude  in  the 
young  surgeon's  voice  was  so  simple  and  gen- 
uine that  Flora  felt  a  momentary  pang  of 
regret  that  he  should  have  been  made  the 
victim  of  the  Irishman's  crafty  scheme.  But 
the  pang  was  only  momentary  ;  for  what  the 
Irishman  did  he  had  done  for  Jack's  sake, 
and  that  was  a  sufficient  excuse.  And  yet 
the  knowledge  that  the  surgeon  had  been  de- 
ceived  made  both  mother  and  daughter  more 
considerate  in  their  demeanor  —  more  genial 
in  their  attitude  —  than  they  could  otherwise 
have  been. 

O'Halloran  stood  watching  the  ladies  and 
the  surgeon  with  a  quizzical  expression,  keep- 
ing  his    hand  in   the    neighborhood    of    his 


o 


mouth    to    screen    his    smiles.       Finally    he 


324  AN  AMBUSCADE 

seemed  to  discover  that  he  could  not  safely 
remain  and  maintain  his  dignity. 

"  Oi  '11  be  goin',  captain,"  he  said  to  Jack. 
"  The  ladies  '11  look  afther  yure  belongin's. 
Termorrer  whin  the  rear  guard  comes  by 
maybe  ye  '11  be  well  enough  for  to  be  lifted 
in  the  ambulance  I  brung  ye  in." 

"  What  amuses  you  ? "  inquired  the  sur- 
geon, seeing  the  Irishman  trying  to  suppress 
a  laugh. 

"  Upon  me  word,  sor,  Oi  was  thinkin'  av 
the  drinch  ye  give  me  whin  Oi  was  ailin'. 
Says  Oi :  '  Ef  't  is  as  bitter  to  the  captain 
here  as  't  was  to  me,  he  '11  be  on  his  feet  in 
a  Jiffy. 

Whereupon  O'Halloran  turned  on  his  heel 
and  went  out,  closing  the  door  gently  after 
him. 

Dr.  Pruden  went  to  work  with  a  will.  He 
smiled  at  the  big  poultice  that  Aunt  Candace 
had  applied  to  the  wound  made  by  the  bullet 
in  its  exit,  but  found  that  the  inflammation 
had  been  controlled  by  it.  Then  with  the 
aid  of  the  fair  Flora,  who  offered  her  assist- 
ance, he  proceeded  to  deal  with  the  wound  on 
the  shoulder,  which  he  found  to  be  in  a  much 
more  serious  condition. 


AN  AMBUSCADE  325 

He  had  no  need  to  probe  the  wound,  but 
saw  at  once  that,  while  it  was  a  painful  and 
dangerous  hurt,  no  vital  part  had  been 
touched.  To  Flora,  who  asked  many  ques- 
tions in  a  tone  of  unaffected  concern,  he  ex- 
plained that  the  cough  was  caused  by  inflam- 
mation of  the  lung  tissues,  which  would  pass 
away  as  the  wound  healed.  He  said  that  it 
would  be  necessary  for  him  to  give  the  wound 
only  one  more  dressing,  which  could  be  done 
the  next  morning,  if  the  ladies  could  put  up 
with  his  presence  for  that  length  of  time ;  or, 
if  they  preferred,  he  could  call  an  ambulance 
and  have  the  wounded  man  carried  along  with 
the  army,  though  that  would  be  both  awk- 
ward and  dangerous.  The  condition  of  the 
lungs,  he  said,  was  such  that  the  slightest 
exposure  might  result  in  pleurisy  or  pneu- 
monia. 

Both  the  ladies  protested  so  earnestly 
against  the  removal  of  the  wounded  man 
that  Dr.  Pruden  inwardly  abused  himself  for 
having  formed  the  idea  that  Southern  wo- 
men had  violent  prejudices  against  the  Yan- 
kees. During  the  discussion  Aunt  Candace 
had  come  in.  She  knew  nothing  of  the 
scheme  that  O'Halloran  had  employed  to  se- 


326  AN  AMBUSCADE 

cure  the  services  of  a  surgeon  for  her  young 
master.  When  she  heard  the  suggestion  that 
Jack  could  be  placed  in  an  ambulance  and 
carried  along  with  the  army  she  pricked  up 
her  ears. 

"  Which  army  you  gwine  take  him  'long 
wid  ?  De  Yankee  army  ? "  she  exclaimed. 
"  Huh  !  ef  you  do  you  '11  hafter  kyar'  me  wid 
'im." 

"  Are  you  wounded,  too  ? "  Dr.  Pruden 
inquired  humorously. 

"  No,  I  ain't ;  but  I  won't  answer  fer  dem 
what  try  ter  take  dat  boy  fum  und'  dis  roof." 
She  turned  and  stared  at  her  mistress  and 
young  mistress  as  if  she  had  never  seen  them 
before.  Then  she  raised  her  fat  arms  above 
her  head  and  allowed  them  to  drop  helplessly 
by  her  side,  muttering,  "  Gawd  knows,  you 
ain't  no  mo'  de  same  folks  dan  ef  you  'd  'a' 
been  moulded  outer  new  dirt." 

And  after  that  she  watched  Mrs.  Kilpat- 
rick  and  Flora  closely,  and  listened  intently 
to  every  word  they  said,  and  shook  her  head, 
and  muttered  to  herself.  To  Plato  she  made 
haste  to  give  out  her  version  of  the  puzzle 
that  the  situation  presented. 

"  You  kin  talk  much  ez  you  please  'bout 


AN  AMBUSCADE  327 

de  Kilpatrick  blood,  but  hit  done  run'd 
out." 

"  How  come  ?  "  Plato  inquired. 

"  Ain't  you  got  no  eyes  in  yo'  haid  ? 
Can't  you  see  what  gwine  on  right  spang 
und'  yo'  nose  ?  Ef  mistiss  an'  Miss  Floe 
ain't  done  gone  ravin'  'stracted,  den  I  done 
los'  what  little  min'  I  had.  You  make  me 
b'lieve  dat  ole  miss  'd  set  up  dar  in  de  house 
an'  let  any  Yankee  dat 's  ever  been  born'd 
talk  'bout  takin  'yo'  Marse  Jack  off  wid  de 
army,  an'  dat,  too,  when  he  layin'  dar  flat  er 
his  back  wid  a  hole  thoo  'im  dat  you  kin 
mighty  nigh  run  yo'  han'  in  ?  Uh-uh ! 
uh-uh !  you  nee'  'n'  tell  me  !  Ole  miss 
would  a  riz  up  an'  slew'd  'im  —  dat  what 
she  'd  'a'  done." 

Plato  scratched  his  head  and  ruminated 
over  the  puzzle. 

"  Did  mistiss  an'  young  mistiss  bofe  say 
dey  want  Marse  Jack  tuck  off  wid  de  army 
des  like  he  is  ?  " 

"  Dee  ain't  say  it  right  out  in  black  an' 
white,  but  dey  sot  dar  an'  let  dat  ar  Yankee 
talk  'bout  it  widout  so  much  ez  battin'  der 
eyes.  An'  Miss  Floe,  —  she  sot  dar  an'  make 
out  she  want  ter  laugh.     I  could  'a'  slapped 


328  AN  AMBUSCADE 

her,  an'  little  mo'  an'  I  'd  'a'  done  it,  too." 
Aunt  Candace's  anger  was  almost  venomous. 

"  Well,  I  tell  you  now,"  responded  Plato, 
"  I  seed  some  mighty  quare  doin's  up  yander 
endurin'  de  war."  He  nodded  his  head  to- 
wards Atlanta.  "  Dey  wuz  one  time  when  a 
river  run'd  right  'twixt  de  lines,  an'  it  got  so 
dat  mighty  nigh  eve'y  day  de  Yankees  an'  our 
boys  'd  go  in  washin'  an'  play  in  de  water 
dar  des  like  a  passel  er  chillun.  Marse  Jack 
wuz  in  dar  eve'y  chance  he  got,  an'  him  an' 
dat  ar  big-  Yankee  what  wuz  in  de  house  — 
he  up  yander  watchin'  de  stock  right  now  — 
dey  'd  git  ter  projickin'  an'  tryin'  ter  duck  one 
an'er,  an'  I  tuck  notice  dat  de  big  Yankee 
allers  let  Marse  Jack  do  de  duckin'.  To'  dat, 
dey  'd  meet  twixt  de  lines  when  dey  wa'n't  no 
rumpus  gwine  on,  an'  dey  'd  swap  an'  trade 
an'  laugh  an'  talk  an'  take  on  like  dey  been 
raised  wid  one  an'er." 

"  Huh !  Much  he  look  like  bein'  raised 
wid  Marse  Jack  !  "  snorted  Aunt  Candace. 

"Maybe  he  de  one  what  want  ter  take 
Marse  Jack  off  wid  de  army,"  suggested 
Plato,  pursuing  the  subject.  "  Ef  he  is  you 
nee'  n'  ter  let  dat  worry  you,  kaze  he  '11  be 
safe  wid  dat  big  Yankee,  sho." 


AN  AMBUSCADE  329 

"  No,  he  won't  needer  !  "  exclaimed  Aunt 
Candace. 

"  How  come  ?  "  asked  her  son. 

"  Kaze  he  ain't  gwine,  dat  's  how  come  !  " 

Plato  shook  his  head  significantly,  as  if  his 
mammy's  decision  settled  the  whole  matter. 
Still  he  was  puzzled  at  the  alleged  willing- 
ness of  his  mistress  and  Miss  Floe  to  allow 
Jack  to  be  carried  off  by  the  Yankee  army. 

Dr.  Pruden,  the  surgeon,  was  also  worried 
with  a  problem  he  could  not  fathom,  and 
puzzled  by  a  great  many  things  he  could  not 
understand.  The  problem  was  not  very  seri- 
ous, as  matters  go  in  time  of  war,  but  it  was 
very  interesting.  Why  should  these  Southern 
ladies,  who,  his  instinct  told  him,  had  very 
bitter  prejudices  against  the  Northern  people, 
and  especially  against  the  Union  soldiers,  be- 
tray such  interest  in  Captain  Jarvis  of  New 
York  ?  And  not  interest  only,  but  genuine 
solicitude,  that  they  sought  in  vain  to  con- 
ceal? The  surgeon  was  a  young  man,  not 
more  than  twenty-five  or  thirty  years  old,  but 
he  had  knocked  about  a  good  deal,  and,  as 
he  said  to  himself,  he  was  no  fool.  In  fact, 
he  had  a  pretty  good  knowledge  of  human 
nature,  and  a  reasonably  quick  eye  for 
"  symptoms." 


330  AN  AMBUSCADE 

He  cared  nothing  whatever  for  such  pre- 
judices as  the  ladies  surely  had.  They  were 
natural  and  inevitable.  They  belonged  to 
the  order  of  things.  They  were  to  be  ex- 
pected. It  was  their  absence  in  the  case  of 
Captain  Jarvis  that  worried  him.  He  could 
see  that  the  seprejudices  were  in  full  bloom, 
so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  and  that  his  pres- 
ence was  tolerated  only  because  he  could  be 
of  some  possible  service  to  Jarvis. 

While  dressing  Jack's  wounded  shoulder, 
which,  under  the  circumstances,  was  a  tedious 
operation,  Dr.  Pruden  noticed  what  beautiful 
hands  Flora  had.  She  was  helping  him  the 
best  she  could,  and  in  that  way  her  hands 
were  very  much  in  evidence.  He  observed, 
too,  that  these  beautiful  hands  had  a  knack 
of  stroking  the  wounded  man's  hair,  and  once 
he  saw  such  an  unmistakable  caress  expressed 
in  the  pressure  of  the  fingers  that  he  glanced 
quickly  at  her  face.  The  surgeon's  glance 
was  so  frankly  inquisitive  that  Flora  blushed 
in  spite  of  herself ;  and  it  was  the  rosiest  of 
blushes,  too,  for  she  instinctively  knew  that 
the  man  suspected  her  to  be  desperately  in 
love  with  a  Yankee  captain  after  the  ac- 
quaintance of  only  a  few  hours.     Then   she 


AN  AMBUSCADE  331 

was  angry  because  she  blushed,  and  was  so 
disturbed  and  distressed  withal  that  Dr.  Pru- 
den,  discovering  these  signs  of  mental  per- 
turbation, was  vexed  with  himself  for  being 
the  involuntary  cause  of  it. 

But  he  was  none  the  less  satisfied  that  he 
had  surprised  and  discovered  the  young  wo- 
man's secret ;  and  he  wondered  that  it  should 
be  so,  weaving  with  his  wonderment  the  pret- 
tiest little  romance  imaginable.  It  was  such 
a  queer  little  romance,  too,  that  he  could  not 
repress  a  smile  as  he  bent  over  Jack's  broken 
shoulder  and  deftly  applied  the  bandages. 
Flora  saw  the  smile  and  with  a  woman's 
intuition  read  its  meaning.  Whereupon, 
with  ready  tact,  she  transferred  her  anger. 
She  made  the  surgeon,  instead  of  herself,  the 
object  of  it,  so  that  when  Jack's  wounds 
had  been  properly  dressed,  Dr.  Pruden  found 
that  the  young  lady's  haughtiness  toward 
him  was  in  significant  contrast  to  the  tender 
solicitude  she  felt  for  the  supposed  Captain 
Jarvis. 

The  surgeon  paid  small  attention  to  this, 
as  he  told  himself,  and  yet  it  was  not  a  plea- 
sant experience.  The  careful  way  in  which 
Flora  avoided  his  glances  gave  him  an  oppor- 


332  AN  AMBUSCADE 

tunity  to  study  her  face,  and  the  more  he 
studied  it  the  more  it  impressed  him.  He 
thought  to  himself  with  a  sigh  that  Jarvis 
would  be  a  lucky  fellow  should  his  little  ro- 
mance turn  out  happily. 

He  would  have  been  glad  to  talk  with 
Jarvis,  but  that  was  out  of  the  question  now ; 
to-morrow  would  do  as  well.  So  he  sat  in 
the  library  and  smoked  his  pipe,  finding 
some  very  good  tobacco  in  an  old  cigar-box 
on  the  table,  and  heard  the  Twentieth  Army 
Corps  go  tramping  by,  the  noise  the  troops 
made  harmonizing  well  with  the  dull  roar  of 
the  November  wind  as  its  gusts  went  through 
the  tree-tops  outside.  Strangely  enough,  it 
all  seemed  to  emanate  from  the  flames  in  the 
fireplace.  After  a  while,  he  leaned  his  head 
against  the  cushion  on  the  back  of  his  chair 
and  closed  his  eyes. 

When  he  opened  them  again  night  was 
falling.  On  one  side  of  the  fireplace  Plato 
sat  prone  on  the  floor.  On  the  other  side 
sat  O'Halloran.  Plato  was  nodding,  his  head 
falling  from  side  to  side.  The  big  Irishman 
was  leaning  forward,  gazing  into  the  fire,  his 
elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  chin  on  his 
hands. 


AN  AMBUSCADE  333 

"  What  time  is  it  ?  "  the  surgeon  asked. 

"  'T  is  long  past  yure  dinner  hour,  sor," 
replied  O'Halloran,  straightening  himself. 

Plato  aroused  himself,  drew  a  pine  knot 
from  some  place  of  concealment,  and  threw  it 
on  the  glowing  bank  of  coals. 

"  Mistiss  say  yo'  vittles  wuz  ter  he  kep' 
warm  in  de  dinin'-room,  suh,"  said  Plato. 
"  Dey  ringded  de  dinner  bell  all  'roun'  you, 
an'  mistiss  come  in  ter  ax  you  ter  have  some 
dinner,  but  she  'low  you  wuz  sleepin'  so  soun' 
she  di'  n'  want  ter  wake  you  up." 

"  Well,"  replied  Dr.  Pruden,  "  a  bite  of 
something  would  n't  hurt,  that 's  a  fact.  I  '11 
go  in  and  see  how  Jarvis  is,  while  you  have 
it  fixed  for  me." 

A  candle  in  the  hall  showed  the  surgeon 
the  way  to  his  patient's  room.  There  was 
no  need  for  the  surgeon  to  go  there,  for  Jack 
was  still  asleep.  The  candle  had  been  placed 
on  the  floor  to  keep  the  light  from  shining  in 
the  wounded  man's  face,  and  the  room  was 
darker  on  that  account ;  but  it  was  not  too 
dark  for  the  surgeon  to  see  as  he  entered  the 
room  that  Flora  was  sitting  over  against  the 
bed.  And,  if  he  was  not  mistaken,  she  had 
been  holding  Jarvis's  hand,  for  he  saw  her 


334  AN  AMBUSCADE 

make  a  quick  movement  as  he  entered,  and 
the  patient  stirred  slightly.  This  seemed  to 
confirm  all  his  inferences,  and  increased  his 
wonder  that  such  a  complication  could  arise 
here  in  the  very  heart  of  rebeldom,  as  it  were. 
He  seated  himself  by  the  bed  and  laid  his 
hand  on  the  patient's  forehead. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  awake,  Jarvis?" 
he  asked  presently. 

"  Not  long,"  replied  Jack.  "  How  did  you 
know  I  was  awake  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  heard  you  swallow,"  replied  Dr. 
Pruden. 

Jack  tried  to  laugh,  but  he  found  that  his 
chest  was  very  sore,  and  the  laugh  ended  in 
a  groan. 

"  Don't  try  to  laugh,  and  don't  talk,"  said 
the  surgeon,  in  a  professional  tone.  "  You 
are  out  of  danger  now,  and  you  ought  to  be 
forever  grateful  to  your  nurse." 

"You  mean  old  Aunt  Candace?"  suo-- 
gested  Jack,  with  dry  humor. 

Dr.  Pruden  stared  at  his  patient  with  wide 
open  eyes.  "  I  'm  surprised  at  you,  Jarvis," 
he  said,  in  a  tone  of  rebuke.  "  I  mean  Miss 
Kilpatrick,  of  course.  Go  to  sleep  now ;  your 
head  is  still  in  a  flighty  condition." 


AN  AMBUSCADE  335 

Whereupon  Dr.  Pruden  went  from  the 
room  into  the  library  again.  Soon  he  was 
summoned  to  the  dining-room,  where,  con- 
trary to  his  expectations,  he  found  Mrs.  Kil- 
patrick  presiding  at  the  table.  Naturally 
they  fell  into  a  conversation  about  the  war, 
but  both  restrained  their  prejudices,  and  the 
talk  turned  out  to  be  so  pleasant  —  though 
there  were  critical  moments  that  had  to  be 
bridged  over  with  silence  —  that  Dr.  Pruden 
thought  he  had  never  seen  a  more  charming 
or  a  more  gracious  hostess. 

IV 

At  early  dawn  the  next  morning,  O'Hal- 
loran,  piloted  by  Plato,  went  into  Jack's 
room,  took  his  captain's  coat  from  the  back 
of  the  chair  where  he  had  placed  it,  folded  it 
up  neatly  and  tucked  it  under  his  waterproof. 
Jack  stirred  uneasily  and  then  awoke.  Plato 
and  the  Irishman  looked  like  huffe  shadows. 
Aunt  Can  dace,  seated  in  a  rocking-chair  be- 
fore the  fireplace,  snored  as  gently  as  she 
could  under  the  circumstances. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  Jack.  He 
felt  so  much  better  that  he  wanted  to  sit  up  in 
bed,  but  found  that  his  shoulder  was  too  sore. 


336  AN  AMBUSCADE 

"  'T  is  but  a  whim  of  mine  for  to  come  an' 
kiss  me  hand  to  ye,  me  b'y.  The  naygur 
here  says  that  a  squad  av  Johnnies  wint  past 
this  half  hour.  So  Oi  says  to  a  man  Oi  know, 
'  O'llalloran,  we  '11  while  away  the  toime  with 
a  canter  acrost  the  country.'  The  naygur 
knows  the  way,  me  b'y,  an'  't  will  take  'im  not 
more  'n  a  hour  for  to  put  me  betwixt  the  trot- 
tin'  Johnnies  an'  the  stragglers." 

"  What  about  the  other  fellow,  —  this  doc- 
tor ?  "  asked  Jack. 

"  Oi  misdoubt  but  he  '11  board  along  wid 
ye,"  remarked  the  big  Irishman  with  a  broad 
grin.  "  'T  will  be  a  nate  way  fer  to  pay  'im 
his  fay,  Oi  dunno  !  Molly  !  but  Oi  hould  the 
taste  o'  his  phaysic  in  me  goozle  down  to  this 
blissed  day  an'  hour  !  " 

He  patted  Jack  affectionately  on  the  head, 
and  with  "  God  bless  you,  me  b'y !  "  went 
from  the  room,  followed  by  Plato. 

Outside  the  house  Plato  turned  to  the  big 
Irishman.     "  Boss,  you  gwine  ter  walk  ?  " 

"  An'  lade  me  horse  ?  'T  is  not  in  me 
bones  to  do  that  same." 

"  You  —  you  —  you  sholy  ain't  gwine  ter 
take  Marse  'Lisha  Perryman's  saddle-hoss,  is 
you,  boss?" 


"GOD    BLESS   YOU,    .ME    BY 


AN  AMBUSCADE  337 

"  Not  in  the  laste,  ye  booger.  'T  is  the 
horse  that  will  be  takin'  me." 

"  Well,  de  Lawd  knows  I  don't  want  ter 
be  nowhars  'roun'  in  deze  dio-o'ins  when 
Marse  'Lisha  fin'  out  dat  dat  horse  done  been 
took  an'  tooken." 

Plato  said  nothing  more,  but  he  shook  his 
head  significantly  many  times,  while  he  was 
helping  the  big  Irishman  saddle  Mr.  Perry- 
man's  favorite  horse.  In  a  short  while  they 
were  on  their  way,  and,  by  traveling  along 
the  plantation  by-ways  —  paths  known  to  the 
negroes  and  to  the  cattle  —  O'Halloran  soon 
came  up  with  the  rear  guard  of  the  Twen- 
tieth Army  Corps. 

Meanwhile,  after  breakfast,  Surgeon  Pruden 
dressed  Jack's  wound  again  and  then  began 
to  make  his  preparations  to  rejoin  the  army. 
He  called  for  the  big  Irishman,  and  was  a 
little  uneasy  when  he  learned  that  O'Halloran 
had  left  before  sunrise.  Nevertheless,  he 
went  on  with  his  preparations,  and  was  ready 
to  take  his  departure,  waiting  only  for  Mrs. 
Kilpatrick  to  come  into  the  library  where  he 
stood  with  Flora  to  tell  them  farewell  to- 
gether, when  he  heard  the  clatter  of  hoofs  on 
the  graveled  avenue.     Looking  from  the  win- 


338  AN  AMBUSCADE 

dow  he  saw  a  squad  of  Confederate  cavalry- 
men galloping  toward  the  house.  At  their 
head  rode  a  man  in  citizen's  clothes,  —  a  man 
past  middle  age,  but  with  a  fierce  military  air. 
Flora  saw  them  at  the  same  moment,  and  the 
color  left  her  cheek.  She  knew  the  man  in 
citizen's  clothes  for  Mr.  Perryman,  their 
neighbor,  who  had  a  great  reputation  for 
ferocity  in  that  section.  Mr.  Perryman  had 
missed  his  horse,  and  had  been  told  by  some 
of  his  negroes  that  the  man  who  had  taken 
him  had  stopped  over  night  at  the  Kilpatrick 
place.  He  was  a  widower  who  had  been 
casting  fond  eyes  on  Flora  for  some  time,  and 
now  thought  to  render  her  an  important  ser- 
vice and  give  her  cause  for  lively  gratitude  by 
ridding  her  of  the  presence  of  the  Yankee  sol- 
dier, if  he  were  still  in  possession  of  the  house, 
or,  if  he  had  escaped,  to  attract  her  admiration 
by  leading  the  Confederates  to  her  rescue. 

Surgeon  Pruden  drummed  a  brief  tattoo  on 
the  windowpane,  and  then  threw  back  his 
head  with  a  contemptuous  laugh. 

"  I  see  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  My  comrade 
and  myself  have  been  drawn  into  an  ambus- 
cade. I  thank  you,  Miss  Kilpatrick,  for  this 
revelation  of  Southern  hospitality." 


AN  AMBUSCADE  339 

"Into  an  ambuscade!"  cried  Flora,  her 
color  returning-. 

"  Why,  certainly !  into  a  trap  !  I  have  but 
one  favor  to  ask  of  you,  Miss  Kilpatrick. 
Let  them  take  me  and  leave  my  comrade. 
Surely  he  can  do  you  no  harm !  " 

"  They  will  not  take  you,"  she  said  with  a 
calmness  he  thought  assumed. 

"Will  they  not?  It  will  be  their  fault 
then.  If  I  could  escape  by  raising  my  finger 
—  so  —  I  would  scorn  to  do  it.  Not  if  I 
knew  they  would  furnish  you  a  spectacle  by 
hanging  me  to  the  nearest  tree." 

She  looked  at  him  so  hard,  and  such  a 
singular  light  blazed  in  her  eyes  that  he  could 
not  fathom  her  thoughts. 

"  What  do  you  take  me  for  ?  "  she  cried. 

"For  a  Southern  lady  loyal  to  her  friends," 
he  replied,  in  a  tone  bitingly  sarcastic.  "  Call 
them  in!  But  stay  —  you  shall  be  spared 
that  trouble.  I  will  go  to  them.  I  ask  only 
that  my  comrade  be  not  disturbed." 

He  started  for  the  door,  but  she  was  before 
him.  She  reached  it  just  as  Mr.  Perryman 
knocked,  and  opened  it  at  once. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Perryman,"  said 
Flora. 


340  AN  AMBUSCADE 

Mr.  Perryman  took  off  his  hat  and  was  in 
the  act  of  politely  responding  to  the  salute, 
as  was  his  habit,  when,  glancing  over  Flora's 
shoulder,  he  saw  Surgeon  Pruden  staring 
serenely  at  him  through  gold  spectacles. 
Thus,  instead  of  saying  "  Good  morning, 
Miss  Flora ;  I  hope  you  are  well  this  morn- 
ing," as  was  his  habit,  Mr.  Perryman  cried 
out :  — 

"  There  's  that  scoundrel  now  !  Surround 
the  house,  men  !  Look  to  the  windows !  I  '11 
take  care  of  the  door  !  Watch  the  side  win- 
dow yonder ! " 

Mr.  Perryman  was  so  far  carried  away  by 
excitement  that  he  failed  to  hear  Flora's 
voice,  which  called  out  to  him  sharply  once 
or  twice.  He  was  somewhat  cooled,  however, 
when  he  saw  the  surgeon  drawing  on  a  pair 
of  heavy  worsted  gloves  instead  of  trying  to 
escape.     And  at  last  Flora  got  his  ear. 

"  Mr.  Perryman,  this  gentleman  is  our 
guest.  Dr.  Pruden,  this  is  our  good  neigh- 
bor, Mr.  Perryman.  Under  the  circumstances, 
his  excitement  is  excusable." 

The  surgeon  acknowledged  his  new  ac- 
quaintance with  a  bow,  but  Mr.  Ferryman's 
surprise  gave  him  no  opportunity  to  respond. 


AN  AMBUSCADE  341 

"  Why,  my  God  !  the  man  's  a  Yankee  ! 
Your  guest !  I  know  you  are  mistaken. 
Why,  he  's  the  fellow  that  stole  my  horse  !  " 

"  My  horse  is  in  the  stable,"  remarked  the 
surgeon  coolly,  yet  reddening  a  little  under 
the  charge.  "  If  he  is  yours,  you  can  have 
him." 

"I  know  how  it  is,  Miss  Flora,"  Mr.  Perry- 
man  insisted.  "  You  're  a  woman,  and  you 
don't  want  to  see  this  Yankee  dealt  with." 

"I'm  a  woman,  Mr.  Perryman ;  but  I  am 
beginning  to  believe  you  are  not  as  much  of 
a  man  as  I  once  thought  you  were.  This 
gentleman  has  saved  my  brother's  life.  He 
is  more  than  our  guest ;  he  is  our  bene- 
factor." 

Mr.  Perryman  stood  dumbfounded.  As 
the  phrase  goes,  his  comb  fell.  His  mus- 
tachios  ceased  to  bristle.  The  surgeon  on 
his  side  was  as  much  surprised  as  Mr.  Perry- 
man. He  turned  to  Flora  with  a  puzzled 
expression  on  his  face  —  and  the  look  he 
gave  her  was  sufficient  to  prevent  Mr.  Perry- 
man from  throwing  away  his  suspicions. 

"  Do  you  mean  Jack  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  Mr.  Perryman.  I  have  no 
brother  but  Jack." 


342  AN  AMBUSCADE 

"  When  and  where  did  you  save  Jack  Kil- 
patriek's  life?"  asked  Mr.  Perryman,  turning 
to  Dr.  Pruden  abruptly. 

"  I  'm  sure  I  could  n't  tell  you,"  replied 
the  surgeon  placidly.  He  was  engaged  in 
wiping  his  spectacles,  but  turned  to  Flora. 

"  Is  the  wounded  man  your  brother,  Miss 
Kilpatrick  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  she  answered. 

"  I  'm  glad  of  it,"  he  said  simply. 

"  You  'd  better  be  glad  !  "  exclaimed  Mr. 
Perryman. 

The  surgeon  threw  his  right  hand  upward. 
"  Nonsense,  man  !  I  'd  be  glad  if  I  had  to 
be  shot  or  hanged  in  half  an  hour." 

"  Come  in  and  see  Jack,  Mr.  Perryman," 
said  Flora,  with  such  a  change  in  her  voice 
and  attitude  that  both  men  looked  at  her. 

Mr.  Perryman  stepped  into  the  hallway, 
and  Flora  led  the  way  to  Jack's  room. 

After  that  no  explanation  was  necessary. 
Mr.  Perryman  talked  to  Jack  with  tears  in 
his  eyes,  for  behind  his  savage  temper  he 
carried  a  warm  heart.  He  and  Jack  had  been 
companions  in  many  a  foxhunt  and  on  many 
a  frolic,  and  there  was  a  real  friendship  be- 
tween the  two. 


AN  AMBUSCADE  343 

Finally  Mr.  Perryman  turned  to  Dr.  Pru- 
den.  "  I  'm  mighty  glad  to  meet  you,  sir, 
and  I  hope  you'll  allow  me  to  shake  your 
hand.  You  've  been  caught  in  a  trap,  but  I 
hope  you  '11  find  bigger  and  better  bait  in  it 
than  is  often  found  in  such  places." 

Just  then  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 
The  captain  of  the  cavalry  squad  wanted  to 
know  what  was  going  on,  and  why  the  Yan- 
kee prisoner  was  n't  brought  out.  The  state 
of  affairs  was  made  known  to  him  briefly. 

"  That  satisfies  me,  I  reckon,  but  I  ain't 
certain  that  it  '11  satisfy  my  men." 

"What  command  do  they  belong  to?" 
asked  Mr.  Perryman. 

"  Wheeler's  cavalry." 

"  Aunt  Candace  !  Aunt  Candace  !  "  cried 
Flora.  "  Give  Wheeler's  cavalry  a  drink  of 
buttermilk  and  let  them  go  !  " 

The  hit  was  as  palpable  as  it  was  daring, 
for  the  men  of  this  command  were  known 
far  and  wide  as  the  Buttermilk  Rangers. 

It  need  hardly  be  said  that  Surgeon  Pruden 
had  a  very  comfortable  time  in  that  neighbor- 
hood. Within  the  course  of  a  few  months 
the  war  was  over,  and  he  was  free  to  o-0 
home ;  but  in  1866  he  came  South  and  set- 


34-i  AN  AMBUSCADE 

tied  in  Atlanta.  Then,  to  make  a  long  story 
short,  he  married  Flora  Kilpatrick.  At  the 
wedding,  Mr.  Perryman,  irreconcilable  as  he 
was,  nudged  Dr.  Pruden  in  the  ribs  and 
winked. 

"  What  'd  I  tell  you  about  the  bait  in  the 
trap  ?  " 


THE   CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY 


If  you  are  a  reader  of  the  newspapers  you 
saw  the  account  they  printed  the  other  day 
in  regard  to  the  murder  of  a  young  woman 
by  Toog  Parnialee,  in  the  neighborhood  of 
"  Hatcher's  Ford."  You  could  n't  have  missed 
it.  The  night  editors  dished  it  up  as  a  great 
sensation,  spreading  it  out  under  startling 
black  headlines. 

The  account  said  that  two  young  ladies  — 
sisters  —  were  walking  along  the  road,  when 
they  saw  Toog  Parmalee  come  out  of  the 
bushes  with  a  pistol  in  his  hand.  He  had 
been  courting"  one  of  them  for  two  or  three 
years,  and  when  she  now  saw  him  coming  she 
turned  and  fled  in  the  opposite  direction,  while 
the  other  sister,  not  knowing  what  to  think 
or  how  to  act,  stood  still.  In  this  way  she 
probably  saved  her  own  life,  for  Toog  passed 
her  by  in  pursuit  of  the  flying  girl,  who  was 
overtaken    and    shot    in  cold   blood.     These 


346         THE  CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY 

harrowing'  details  were  spread  out  with  great 
jDarticularity  in  the  newspapers,  and  the  ver- 
dict, made  up  by  those  who  furnished  the 
details,  was  that  Parmalee  was  stark  crazy. 

The  only  fact  given  in  the  account  was 
that  Parmalee  had  killed  his  sweetheart,  and 
this  could  have  been  made  clear  in  much  less 
space  than  a  column  of  reading  matter  occu- 
pies, for  Hatcher's  Ford  is  fifty  miles  from 
the  settlement  where  the  affair  occurred. 
That  settlement  is  known  as  Hatch's  Clearing, 
because,  as  Mrs.  Pruett  says,  nobody  by  the 
name  of  Hatch  ever  lived  there,  or  on  any 
clearing  on  that  side  of  Tray  Mountain,  and 
as  for  the  other  side  —  well,  that  was  in  an- 
other part  of  the  county  altogether. 

So  much  for  the  first  mistake ;  and  now 
for  the  second.  Was  Toog  Parmalee  crazy  ? 
There  's  no  need  for  you  to  take  the  word  of 
an  outsider  on  that  subject,  but  before  you 
make  up  your  mind  go  and  ask  Mrs.  Pruett. 
It  is  a  tiresome  journey,  to  be  sure,  but  it 
is  always  worth  the  trouble  to  find  out  the 
truth.  You  may  go  to  Clarksville  from  At- 
lanta, but  at  Clarksville  you  '11  have  to  hire  a 
buggy,  and,  although  the  road  is  a  long  one, 
it  is  very  interesting.     It  would  be  well  to 


THE  CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY         347 

take  a  companion  with  you,  if  your  horse  is 
skittish,  for  it  will  be  necessary  to  open  a 
great  many  big  gates  as  you  go  along.  All 
the  farms  are  under  fence  in  this  particular 
region,  and  the  gates  are  a  necessity. 

Though  the  road  to  Hatch's  Clearing"  is  a 
long  and  winding  one,  you  can't  miss  your 
way.  You  turn  into  it  suddenly  and  unex- 
pectedly twelve  miles  from  Clarksville,  and 
after  that  there  is  no  need  of  making  inquir- 
ies, for  there  are  no  cross-roads  and  no 
"  forks  "  to  embarrass  you.  There  's  only 
one  trouble  about  it.  You  ascend  the  moun- 
tain by  such  a  gentle  grade  that  when  you 
reach  the  top  you  refuse  to  believe  you  are 
on  the  summit  at  all.  This  lack  of  belief  is 
helped  mightily  by  the  fact  that  the  mountain 
itself  is  such  a  big  affair. 

Presently  you  will  hear  a  cowbell  jingling 
somewhere  in  the  distance,  and  ten  to  one 
you  will  meet  a  ten-year-old  boy  in  the  road, 
his  breeches  hanging  by  one  suspender  and 
an  old  wool  hat  flopping  on  the  back  of  his 
head.  The  boy  will  conduct  you  cheerfully 
if  not  gayly  along  the  road,  and  in  a  little 
while  you  will  hear  the  hens  cackling  in  Mrs. 
Pruett's  horse  lot.     This  will  jnve  the  lad  an 


348  THE  CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY 

excuse  to  run  on  ahead  of  you.  He  will  ex- 
claim, with  as  much  energy  as  his  plaintive 
voice  can  command  :  — 

"  Oh,  Lordy  !  them  plegged  dogs  is  done 
run  the  ole  dominieker  hen  off'n  the  nest." 

Whereupon  he  will  start  to  running  and 
pretend  to  go  to  the  horse  lot.  But  it  is  all 
a  pretense,  for  when  you  come  in  sight  of 
the  house  you  will  see  three  or  four,  maybe 
a  half-dozen,  white-headed  children  on  the 
fence  watching  for  you,  and  if  you  have  said 
a  kind  word  to  the  boy  who  volunteered  to 
be  your  guide,  Mrs.  Pruett  herself  will  be 
standing  on  the  porch,  the  right  arm  stretched 
across  her  ample  bosom,  so  that  the  hand 
may  serve  as  a  rest  for  the  elbow  of  the  left 
arm,  which  is  bent  so  that  the  reed  stem  of 
her  beloved  pipe  may  be  held  on  a  level  with 
her  good-humored  mouth.  You  will  have  time 
to  notice,  as  your  horse  ascends  the  incline 
that  leads  to  the  big  gate,  that  the  house  is 
a  very  comfortable  one  for  the  mountains, 
neatly  weather-boarded  and  compactly  built, 
with  four  rooms  and  a  "  shed,"  which  serves  as 
a  dining-room  and  a  kitchen.  Two  boxwood 
plants  stand  sentinel  inside  the  gate,  and  are, 
perhaps,    the    largest   you    have    ever   seen. 


THE  CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY         349 

There  is  also  a  ragged  hedge  of  privet,  which 
seems  to  lack  thrift. 

Mrs.  Pruett  will  turn  first  to  the  ri^ht  and 
then  to  the  left.  Seeing  no  one  but  the 
children,  she  will  call  out,  in  a  penetrating, 
but  not  unpleasant,  voice  :  — 

"  Where  on  the  face  of  the  yeth  is  Sary's 
Tom  ?  "     Forth  from  the  house  will  come  the 
boy  you  met  on  the  road.    "  Can't  you  move  ?  " 
Mrs.  Pruett  will  say.     "  Yander  's  the  stran- 
ger a-wonderin'  an'  a-reck'nin'  what  kind  of 
a  place  he 's  come  to,  an'  here  's  ever'body 
a-standin'  aroun'  an'  a-star-gazin'  an'a-suckin' 
the'r  thumbs.     Will  you  stir  'roun',  Tom,  er 
shill  I  go  out  an'  take  the  stranger's  hoss  ? 
Ax  'im  to  come  right  in  —  an',  here !   you, 
Mirandy  !  fetch  out  that  big  rockin'-cheer  !  " 
It  is  safe  to  say  that  you  will  enjoy  every- 
thing that  is   set  before  you;  you  will   not 
complain  even  if  the  meat   is  fried,  for  the 
atmosphere  of  the  mountain  fits  the  appetite 
to  the  fare.     If  Mrs.  Pruett  likes  your  looks 
you  will  catch  her  in  an  attitude  of  listening 
for    something.       Finally,    you   will    hear   a 
shuffling  sound    in  one  of  the    rooms,  as  if 
a  man  were  moving  about,  and  then,  if  it  is 
Mrs.    Pruett's    "old   man"— and    she    well 


350         THE  CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY 

knows  by  the  sound  —  she  '11  lift  her  voice 
and  call  out :  "  Jerd  !  what  on  the  face  of 
the  yeth  air  you  doin'  in  there  ?  You  '11 
stumble  an'  break  some  er  them  things  in 
there  thereckly.  Why  don't  you  come  out 
an'  show  yourse'f?  You  hain't  afeard  er 
nothin'  ner  nobody,  I  hope." 

Whereupon  Mr.  Pruett  will  come  out  —  a 
giant  in  height,  with  a  slight  stoop  in  his 
shoulders  and  a  pleasant  smile  on  his  face. 
And  he  will  give  you  a  hearty  greeting,  and 
his  mild  blue  eyes  will  regard  you  so  stead- 
fastly that  you  will  wonder  why  Mrs.  Pruett 
asked  him  if  he  was  afraid  of  anybody.  Later, 
you  will  discover  that  this  inquiry  is  a  stand- 
ing joke  with  his  wife,  for  Jerd  Pruett  is 
renowned  in  all  that  region  as  the  most  dan- 
gerous man  in  the  mountains  when  his  tem- 
per is  aroused.  Fortunately  for  him  and  his 
neighbors,  he  has  the  patience  of  Job. 

You  will  find  on  closer  acquaintance  with 
Jerd  Pruett  that  he  is  a  man  of  considera- 
ble information  in  a  great  many  directions, 
and  that  he  is  possessed  of  a  large  fund  of 
common  sense.  Naturally  the  talk  will  drift 
to  the  murder  of  the  young  woman  by  Toog 
Parmalee.      If   you    don't    mention    it,   Mrs. 


THE  CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY         351 

Pruett  will,  for  she  has  her  own  ideas  in  re- 
gard to  the  tragedy. 

"  What 's  bred  in  the  bone  will  come  out 
in  the  blood,"  she  will  say.  "  Crazy  !  why 
Toog  Parmalee  wer  n't  no  more  crazy  when 
he  killt  Sally  Williams  than  Jerd  there  —  an' 
much  he  looks  like  bein'  crazy  !  " 

And  then  Mrs.  Pruett  will  hark  back  to 
old  times,  and  tell  a  story  that  has  some  curi- 
ous points  of  interest.  It  is  a  long  story  the 
way  she  tells  it,  but  it  will  bear  condensation. 

It  was  in  the  sixties,  as  time  goes,  when 
noxious  influences  had  culminated  in  war  in 
this  vast  nursery  of  manhood,  the  American 
republic.  Some  of  us  have  already  for- 
gotten what  the  bother  was  about,  never  hav- 
ing had  very  clear  ideas  as  to  the  occasion  of 
so  much  desperation.  Nevertheless  it  will  be 
a  long  time  before  some  of  the  details  and 
developments  are  wiped  from  our  memories. 
As  good  luck  would  have  it,  Tray  Mountain 
was  out  of  the  line  of  march,  so  to  speak. 
The  great  trouble  encircled  it,  to  be  sure, 
but  the  noxious  vapors  were  thinner  here 
than  elsewhere,  so  that  Tray  elbowed  his  way 
skyward  in  perfect  peace  and  security  and 
would   hardly  have  known  that  the  war  was 


352  THE  CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY 

pfoinff  on  but  for  one  event  which  came  like 
an  explosion  on  the  quiet  neighborhood.  The 
echo  of  the  explosion,  Mrs.  Pruett  claims, 
was  not  heard  until  Toog  Parmalee's  pistol 
went  off  close  to  his  sweetheart's  bosom  — 
and  that  was  only  the  other  day. 

Now,  the  war  began  gently  enough  and 
went  along  easily  enough  so  far  as  Tray 
Mountain  was  concerned.  Its  sunsets  were 
not  more  golden  nor  its  wonderful  dawns 
rosier  on  that  account.  The  thunders  that 
shook  Manassas,  and  Malvern  Hill,  and  Get- 
tysburg, gave  forth  no  sounds  in  the  crags 
of  Tray.  If  the  truth  must  be  told,  there 
are  no  crags  nearer  than  those  of  Yonah,  or 
those  which  lift  up  and  form  the  chasm  of 
Tallulah,  for  Tray  is  a  commonplace,  drowsy 
old  mountain,  and  it  does  nothing  but  sit 
warming  its  sway-back  in  the  sun  or  cooling 
it  in  the  rain. 

But  Tray  Mountain  had  one  attraction,  if 
no  other,  and  the  name  of  this  attraction  was 
Loorany  Parmalee.  In  a  moment  of  high 
good  humor,  Mrs.  Pruett  remarked  that  "  ef 
Jerd  had  any  fault  in  the  world  it  was  in 
bein'  too  good."  Paraphrase  this  tender  tri- 
bute, and  it  would  fit  Looranv  Parmalee  to 


THE   CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY         353 

a  T.  If  she  had  any  fault  it  was  in  being 
too  handsome.  But  beauty,  it  must  be  borne 
in  mind,  is  a  relative  term  when  you  employ 
it  in  a  descriptive  sense.  No  doubt  Loorany 
would  have  cut  a  very  unfashionable  figure 
in  a  group  of  beautiful  girls  dressed  according 
to  the  demands  of  fashion.  She  lacked  the 
high  color  and  the  lines  that  are  produced  by 
contact  with  refining  influences ;  but  on  the 
mountain,  in  her  own  neighborhood,  she  was 
a  cut  or  a  cut  and  a  half  above  any  of  the 
rest  of  the  girls.  Her  eyes  were  black  as 
coals,  and  latent  heat  sparkled  in  their  depths. 
Her  features  were  regular,  and  yet  a  little 
hard,  her  under-lip  being  a  trifle  too  thin, 
but  she  had  the  sweetest  smile  and  the  whit- 
est teeth  ever  seen  on  Tray  Mountain.  Her 
figure  —  well,  her  figure  was  what  nature 
made  it,  and  that  wise  old  lady  knows  how 
to  fashion  things  when  she  's  let  alone  and  has 
the  right  kind  of  material  to  work  on.  She 
had  the  leisure  as  well  as  the  material  in 
Loorany's  case,  and  the  result  was  that  in 
form  and  in  grace  the  girl  belonged  to  the 
age  that  we  see  in  some  of  the  Grecian  mar- 
bles. 

In  the  right  light,  and  in  the  foreground 


354         THE  CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY 

of  a  boulder,  with  a  roguish  streak  of  sun- 
shine whipping  across  her  black  hair,  her 
sunbonnet  hanging  between  her  shoulders, 
her  right  hand  lifted  as  if  listening,  her  lips 
half  parted,  and  a  saucy  smile  dancing  in  her 
eyes,  no  artist  in  our  day  and  time  has  ever 
conceived  a  lovelier  picture  than  Loorany 
Parmalee  made.  To  find  its  counterpart,  you 
will  have  to  hark  back  to  the  romantic  rascals 
who  laid  on  the  color  in  old  times. 

Anyhow,  Loorany's  beauty  was  known  far 
beyond  the  cloud-skirted  heights  of  Tray 
Mountain.  Nacoochee,  the  Vale  of  the 
Evening  Star,  had  heard  about  it,  and  was 
curious,  and  far  away  on  the  banks  of  the 
Chattahoochee,  in  the  county  of  Hall,  a  young 
man  knew  of  it,  and  became  "  restless  in  the 
mind,"  as  Mrs.  Pruett  would  say.  This 
young  man's  name  was  Hildreth ;  Hildreth 
of  Hall,  he  was  called,  because  there  was  a 
Hildreth  in  Habersham. 

Now,  it  would  have  been  better  in  the  end 
for  Hildreth  of  Hall  if  he  had  never  heard  of 
Loorany  Parmalee,  but  small  blame  should 
be  laid  at  his  door  on  account  of  his  igno- 
rance ;  the  future  was  a  sealed  book  to  him,  as 
it  is  to  all  of  us.     It  was  what  he  knew  and 


THE  CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY  355 

what  he  did  that  he  is  to  be  blamed  for,  if 
a  dead  man  can  be  blamed  for  anything. 

It  happened  in  the  summer  of  1863  that 
Hildreth  of  Hall  was  visiting  Hildreth  of 
Habersham,  —  there  was  some  matter  of  rela= 
tionship  between  them,  —  and  they  both  con- 
cluded to  attend  the  camp-meeting  that  was 
held  every  year  on  Taylor's  Range,  a  small 
spur  that  seemed  to  have  been  sent  down  by 
Tray  to  inform  the  Vale  of  the  Evening  Star 
that  it  could  spread  out  no  farther  in  that 
direction.  Nacoochee  was  polite  and  agree- 
able, and  went  wandering  off  westward,  where 
it  stands  to-day,  the  loveliest  valley  in  all  the 
world.  But  Taylor's  Range  so  far  caught 
the  infection  from  the  valley  as  to  permit  its 
top  to  spread  out  as  level  as  a  table,  and  on 
this  table  the  Christians  pitched  their  rude 
tents  and  built  them  a  rough  tabernacle,  and 
here  they  held  their  yearly  campmeeting. 

To  this  meeting  in  1863  came  Hildreth  of 
Hall  and  his  kinsmen.  Hither  also  came  a 
number  of  people  from  Hatch's  Clearing,  and 
among  them  Loorany  Parmalee.  The  old 
people  had  come  to  pray,  but  the  youngsters 
had  come  to  frolic,  and  the  gayest  of  all  was 
Loorany   Parmalee.     There   were    girls  from 


356  THE  CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY 

the  villages  round  about,  as  well  as  girls  from 
the  valley,  and  some  of  these  made  believe 
to  laugh  at  Loorany,  but  the  laugh  was 
against  them  when  they  saw  the  boys  and 
young  men  flocking  after  her.  Mrs.  Pruett 
had  more  than  half  promised  to  keep  an  eye 
on  Loorany,  and  she  did  her  best,  but  how 
can  a  pious,  maimed  lady  keep  up  with  a 
good-looking  girl  who  is  at  an  age  when 
she  is  less  a  woman  and  feels  more  like  one 
than  at  any  other  stage  of  her  existence? 
Mrs.  Pruett  tried  good-humoredly  to  put  a 
curb  on  Loorany,  but  the  lass  laughed  and 
shook  the  bridle  off,  and  no  wonder,  con- 
sidering the  weakness  of  human  nature.  She 
was  beginning  to  taste  the  sweets  of  her  first 
real  conquest,  for  here  was  Hildreth  of  Hall, 
the  finest  young  fellow  of  the  lot,  following 
her  about  like  a  dog,  and  running  hither  and 
yon  to  please  her  whims  and  fancies. 

It  is  true  that  John  Wesley  Millirons  had 
been  casting  sheep's  eyes  at  her  for  several 
years,  hanging  around  the  house  on  Sunday 
afternoons  and  riding;  with  her  to  church  on 
Sundays  ;  but  what  of  that  ?  Was  n't  John 
Wesley  almost  the  same  as  home  folks  ?  And 
did  he  ever  see  the  day  that  he  was  as  polite, 


THE  CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY        357 

or  as  quick  to  fetch  and  carry,  or  as  nimble 
with  his  tongue  as  Hildreth  of  Hall  ? 

Go  along  with  your  talk  about  solid  qual- 
ities !  Girls  must  enjoy  themselves  and  have 
fun,  and  how  can  you  have  the  heart  to  ask 
them  to  sit  for  hours  with  a  chap  that  mopes 
or  is  too  bashful  to  talk  fluently,  or  who 
looks  like  he  is  frightened  to  death  all  the 
time?  It  is  too  much  to  ask.  Girls  must 
have  a  chance,  and  if  you  don't  give  it  to 
them  they  will  take  it. 

So  Mrs.  Pruett  watched  Loorany  gallanting 
around  with  Hildreth  of  Hall,  and  all  the 
other  chajDS  ready  to  take  his  place,  except 
John  Wesley  Millirons,  who  sat  in  the  shade 
and  made  marks  in  the  sand  with  a  twi^. 
Mrs.  Pruett  watched  all  this,  and  gravely 
shook  her  head.  And  yet  the  head-shaking 
was  good-humored  and  lenient.  If  Mrs. 
Pruett  had  been  asked  at  the  time  why  she 
shook  her  head  she  could  n't  have  told.  She 
said  afterwards  that  she  knew  why  she  shook 
her  head,  and  she  was  inclined  to  plume  her- 
self on  her  foresight.  But  you  know  how 
people  are.  If  matters  had  gone  on  smoothly, 
or  even  if  Loorany  had  been  like  other  girls, 
Mrs.  Pruett  would  have  forgotten  all  about 


358         THE  CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY 

the  fact  that  she  shook  her  head  when  she 
saw  the  lass  gallanting  around  with  Hildreth 
of  Hall. 

Mrs.  Pruett  had  a  "  tent "  on  the  camp- 
ground, a  small  cabin,  roughly,  but  very 
comfortably,  fixed  up,  and  she  stayed  the 
week  out.  So  did  Loorany.  So  did  Hil- 
dreth of  Hall.  But  along  about  Wednesday 
—  the  meeting  had  begun  on  Sunday,  — 
John  Wesley  Millirons  flung  his  saddle  on  his 
mule  and  made  for  home.  Loorany  Parma- 
lee  and  Hildreth  of  Hall  were  sitting  in  a 
buggy  under  a  big  umbrella,  and  very  close 
together,  when  John  Wesley  went  trotting 
by,  his  long  legs  flapping  against  the  sides  of 
the  mule.  He  bowed  gravely  as  he  passed, 
but  never  turned  his  head. 

"Don't  he  look  it?"  laughed  Loorany,  as 
he  passed  out  of  sight  up  the  road  that  led 
to  Tray. 

II 

As  may  be  supposed,  John  Wesley  Mill- 
irons  was  n't  feeling  very  well  when  he  rode 
off,  leaving  Loorany  sitting  close  to  Hildreth 
of  Hall,  under  the  big  umbrella.  And  yet 
he  was  n't  feeling  very  much   out   of  sorts, 


THE  CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY         359 

either.  His  patience  was  of  that  remarkable 
kind  that  mountain  life  breeds,  —  the  kind 
that  belongs  to  the  everlasting  hills,  the  over- 
hanging sky. 

So  John  Wesley  Millirons,  as  he  rode  home, 
laughed  to  himself  at  the  thought  that  he 
was  the  mountain  and  Loorany  the  weather. 
It  was  an  uncouth  thought  that  could  n't  be 
worked  out  logically,  but  it  pleased  John 
Wesley  to  hug  the  idea  to  his  bosom,  logic 
or  no  logic.  And  so  he  carried  it  home  with 
him  and  nursed  it  long  and  patiently,  as  an 
invalid  woman  in  a  poorhouse  nurses  a  sick 
geranium. 

After  the  camp-meeting  Hildreth  of  Hall 
became  a  familiar  figure  on  Tray  Mountain, 
especially  in  the  neighborhood  of  Hatch's 
Clearing.  As  the  year  1863  was  a  period  of 
war,  you  will  wonder  how  such  a  strapping 
young  fellow  as  Hildreth  of  Hall  kept  out  of 
the  Confederate  army,  since  there  was  such 
a  strenuous  demand  for  food  for  the  guns, 
big  and  little.  The  truth  is,  it  was  a  puzzle 
to  a  good  many  people  about  that  time,  but 
there  was  no  secret  at  all  about  it.  The 
Hildreths,  both  of  Hall  and  Habersham,  had 
a  good  deal   of  political   influence.     If  you 


360  THE  CAUSE  OF   THE  DIFFICULTY 

think  war  shuts  out  politics  and  politicians 
you  are  very  much  mistaken.  On  the  con- 
trary, it  widens  their  field  of  operations  and 
thus  sharpens  their  wits.  In  the  confusion 
and  uproar  their  increased  activity  escapes 
attention.  Thus  it  happened  that  Hildreth 
of  Hall  was  a  commissary.  He  had  a  horse 
and  buggy  at  the  expense  of  the  govern- 
ment, and  the  taxpayers  of  the  country  had 
to  pay  him  well  for  every  trip  he  made  to 
Tray  Mountain. 

Under  these  circumstances,  you  understand, 
courting  was  not  only  easy  and  pleasant,  but 
profitable  as  well,  and  Hildreth  of  Hall  took 
due  advantage  of  the  situation.  He  would 
have  made  his  headquarters  at  Mrs.  Pruett's, 
but  somehow  that  lady,  who  was  thirty-odd 
years  younger  then  than  she  is  now,  had  no 
fancy  for  the  young  man.  She  politely  re- 
jected his  overtures,  and  so  he  made  arrange- 
ments to  put  up  at  old  man  Millirons'  —  of 
all  places  in  the  world.  It  was  such  a  queer 
come-off  that  John  Wesley  used  to  go  behind 
the  corn-crib  and  chuckle  over  it  by  the  hour, 
especially  on  Sundays,  when  he  had  nothing 
else  to  do. 

It  was   plain    to   everybody,  except    John 


THE  CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY         361 

Wesley  Millirons,  that  Loorany  was  perfectly 
crazy  about  Hildreth  of  Hall,  but  a  good 
many,  impressed  by  Mrs.  Pruett's  prejudice 
against  the  young  man,  had  their  doubts  as 
to  whether  he  was  crazy  about  Loorany.  On 
the  other  hand,  there  were  just  as  many, 
including  the  majority  of  the  young  people, 
who  were  certain,  as  they  said,  that  Hildreth 
of  Hall  loved  Loorany  Parmalee  every  bit 
and  grain  as  hard  as  Loorany  loved  him. 
Between  the  two  friendly  factions  you  could 
hear  all  the  facts  in  regard  to  the  case  and 
still  never  get  at  the  rights  of  it. 

Once  Mrs.  Pruett  took  John  Wesley  to 
task  in  a  kindly  fashion.  "  I  never  know'd 
you  was  so  clever,  John  Wesley,  tell  I  seed 
you  give  the  road  to  Hild'eth  o'  Hall  —  an' 
Loorany  a-standin'  right  spang  in  the  middle 
watin'  to  see  which  un  'ud  git  to  'er  fust. 
Oh,  yes,  John  Wesley,  you  er  e'en  about  the 
cleverest  feller  in  the  worl'." 

"How  come/ Mis  Pruett?"  he  inquired 
blandly. 

"  Why,  bekaze  you  was  so  quick  to  give 
way  to  that  chap  from  below." 

"  Shucks !  that  feller  hain't  a-botherin' 
me,"  exclaimed  John  Wesley. 


362  THE  CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY 

"  Oh,  I  hope  not,"  said  Mrs.  Pruett ;  "  the 
Lord  knows  I  do.  Fer  ef  he  ain't  a-botherin' 
yon,  I  know  mighty  well  he  ain't  a-botherin' 
Loorany.  Ef  you  could  'a'  seed  'em  a-swingin' 
in  the  bullace  vine,  as  I  did  yistiddy,  you 
would  n't  'a  thought  Loorany  was  bothered 
much.  Well,  not  much  !  "  Mrs.  Pruett  added, 
sarcastically. 

"  I  seed  'em,"  remarked  John  Wesley, 
chuckling. 

"You  did?"  cried  Mrs.  Pruett.  She  was 
both  surprised  and  indignant. 

"  Lor',  yassum  !  I  thess  sot  up  an'  laughed. 
S'  I :  f  The  feller  thinks  bekaze  he  's  got  his 
arm  'roun'  Loorany  that  she  's  done  his'n  ! ' 
I  laughed  so  I  was  af eared  they  'd  hear  me." 

Mrs.  Pruett  said  afterwards  that  her  heart 
jumped  into  her  throat  when  she  heard  John 
Wesley  talking  in  such  a  strain,  for  the  idea 
flashed  in  her  mind  that  he  was  distracted  — 
and  it  so  impressed  her  that  for  one  brief 
moment  she  was  overtaken  by  fear. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  trying  to  turn  the  mat- 
ter off  lightly,  "  when  you  see  a  feller  wi' 
his  arm  aroun'  a  gal  an'  she  not  doin'  any 
squealin'  to  speak  of,  you  may  know  it  's 
not  so  mighty  long  tell  the  weddin'." 


THE  CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY         363 

"Yassum,"  responded  John  Wesley,  still 
chuckling,  "  it  may  be  so  wi'  some  folks,  but 
not  when  the  gal  is  Loorany  Parmalee.  No, 
ma'am  !     You  thess  wait." 

"  Oh,  it  hain't  no  trouble  to  me  to  wait," 
said  Mrs.  Pruett ;  "  but  what  'd  I  do  ef  I  was 
a-standin'  in  your  shoes  ?  " 

"  You  'd  make  yourse'f  comfortuble,  thess 
like  I  'm  a-doin',"  remarked  John  Wesley. 

Mrs.  Pruett  was  so  much  disturbed  that 
she  told  her  husband  about  it,  and  suggested 
that  he  look  into  the  matter  to  the  extent  of 
making  such  inquiries  as  a  man  can  make. 
But  Jerd  shook  his  head  and  snapped  his  big 
fingers. 

"  Oh,  come  now,  mother,"  he  said,  "  it 's 
uther  too  soon  er  it 's  too  late.  An'  that 
hain't  all,  mother ;  by  the  time  I  git  done 
tendin'  to  my  own  business  an'  yourn,  I  feel 
like  drappin'  off  ter  sleep." 

Matters  went  on  in  this  way  until  late  in 
1863,  and  then  there  came  a  time  when  Hil- 
dreth  of  Hall  ceased  to  visit  Hatch's  Clearing. 
Some  said  he  had  been  "  conscripted  into  the 
war,"  as  they  called  it,  and  some  said  he  had 
been  appointed  to  another  office  that  took  up 
his   time  and  attention.     But,  whatever  the 


364  THE  CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY 

cause  of  his  absence  was,  Loorany  seemed  to 
be  satisfied.  She  went  about  as  gay  as  a 
lark  and  as  spry  as  a  ground  squirrel.  John 
Wesley,  too,  continued  to  take  thing's  easy. 
He  made  no  show  of  elation  over  the  absence 
of  Hildreth  of  Hall,  and  never  inquired  about 
it.  He  had  never  ceased  his  visits  to  the 
Parmalees,  but  he  went  no  oftener,  now  that 
his  rival  had  disappeared  from  the  field,  than 
he  had  gone  before.  As  Mrs.  Pruett  re- 
marked,  he  was  the  same  old  John  Wesley 
in  fair  weather  as  he  was  in  foul.  Patient 
and  willing,  and  good-humored,  for  all  his 
seriousness,  he  went  along  attending  to  his 
own  business  and  helping  everybody  else  who 
needed  help.  Thus,  in  a  way,  he  was  very 
popular,  but  somehow  those  who  liked  him 
least  had  a  pity  for  him  that  was  almost  con- 
temptuous. John  Wesley  paid  no  attention 
to  such  things.  He  just  rocked  along,  as 
Mrs.  Pruett  said. 

It  was  the  same  when,  one  day  in  the 
spring  of  1864,  Hildreth  of  Hall  came  riding 
up  the  mountain  driving  a  pair  of  handsome 
horses  to  a  top  buggy.  He  wore  a  gray 
uniform,  and  the  coat  had  a  long  tail  to  it,  — 
a  sure  sign  he  was  an  officer  of  some  kind, 


THE  CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY  365 

for  Jerd  Pruett  had  seen  just  such  coats  worn 
by  the  officers  in  the  village  below.  To  be 
sure,  there  ought  to  have  been  some  kind  of 
a  mark  on  the  sleeves  or  shoulders ;  but  no 
matter  about  that ;  nobody  but  officers  could 
wear  long- tailed  coats.  That  point  was 
settled  without  much  argument. 

And  the  buggy  was  new  or  had  been 
newly  varnished,  for  the  spokes  shone  in  the 
sun,  and  the  sides  of  the  body  glistened  like 
glass.  What  of  that?  Well,  a  good  deal, 
you  may  be  sure ;  for  some  people  can  put 
two  and  two  together  as  well  as  other  people, 
and  the  folks  on  the  mountain  had  n't  been 
living  for  nothing.  What  of  that,  indeed  ! 
Two  fine  horses  and  a  shiny  top-buggy  meant 
only  one  thing,  and  that  was  a  wedding. 

Everybody  was  sure  of  it  but  John  Wesley 
Millirons.  When  Mrs.  Pruett  twitted  him  with 
this  overwhelming;  evidence  he  had  the  same 
old  answer  ready  :  "  You-all  thess  wait." 

"  Well,  we  hain't  got  long  to  wait,"  said 
Mrs.  Pruett. 

"  You  reckon  ?  "  exclaimed  John  Wesley, 
with  pretended  astonishment.  Then  he 
chuckled  and  went  on  his  way,  apparently 
happy  and  unconcerned. 


366  THE  CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY 

Hildreth  of  Hall  remained  in  the  neighbor- 

o 

hood  about  a  week,  and  was  with  Loorany 
Parmalee  pretty  much  all  the  time,  except 
when  he  was  asleep.  They  took  long  buggy 
rides  together,  and  everything  seemed  to  be 
getting  along  swimmingly.  But  one  morn- 
ing early  Hildreth  of  Hall  harnessed  up  his 
horses  with  his  own  hands  and  went  off  down 
the  road  leading;  to  Clarksville. 

It  was  noticed  after  that  that  Loorany  was 
not  as  gay  and  as  spry  as  she  had  been.  In 
fact,  the  women  folks  could  see  that  she  was 
not  the  same  girl  at  all.  She  used  to  go  and 
sit  in  Mrs.  Pruett's  porch  and  watch  the  road, 
and  sometimes  her  mind  would  be  so  far 
away  that  she  would  have  to  be  asked  the 
same  question  twice  before  she  'd  make  any 
reply.  And  she  had  a  way  of  sighing  that 
Mrs.  Pruett  did  n't  like  at  all.  You  know 
how  peculiar  some  people  are  when  they  are 
fond  of  anybody.  Well,  that  was  the  way 
with  Mrs.  Pruett. 

Ill 

Nearly  two  months  after  Hildreth  of  Hall 
went  away  with  his  two  fine  horses  and  his 
shiny  top-buggy,   Tray   Mountain    got   wind 


THE  CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY         367 

of  some  strange  news.  The  word  was  that 
conscript-officers  were  coming  up  after  some 
of  the  men,  both  old  and  young,  who  were  of 
the  lawful  age.  The  news  was  brought  by 
a  son  of  Widow  Purvis,  Jerd  Pruett's  sister, 
who  lived  within  a  mile  of  Clarksville.  She 
had  gone  to  town  with  butter  and  eggs  to 
exchange  for  some  factory  thread  —  "  spun 
truck  "  Mrs.  Pruett  called  it  —  and  she  heard 
it  from  old  man  Hathaway,  who  was  a  partic- 
ular friend  of  Jerd  Pruett's. 

Word  reached  the  mountain  just  in  time, 
too,  for  within  thirty-six  hours  four  horsemen 
came  riding  along  the  road  and  stopped  at 
Mrs.  Pruett's.  And  who  should  be  leading 
them  but  Hildreth  of  Hall !  Mrs.  Pruett  saw 
this  much  when  she  peeped  through  a  crack 
in  the  door,  and  she  was  so  taken  aback  that 
you  might  have  knocked  her  down  with  a 
feather.  But  in  an  instant  she  was  as  mad 
as  fire. 

"  Hello,  Mrs.  Pruett !  "  says  Hildreth  of 
Hall.     "  Where  's  Jerd  ?  " 

"  And  who  may  Jerd  be?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Pruett  placidly. 

The  young  man's  face  fell  at  this,  but  he 
said  with  a  bold  voice  :  — 


368  THE  CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY 

"  Why,  don't  you  know  me,  Mrs.  Pruett?" 

"  I  mought  'a'  seed  you  before,  but  folks 
is  constant  a-comin'  an'  a-gwine.  They  pass 
up  the  road  an'  down  the  road  an'  then  they 
pass  out'n  rny  mind." 

"  Well,  you  have  n't  forgotten  me,  I  know  ; 
I  'm  Hilclreth  of  Hall." 

"  Is  that  so,  now  ?  "  remarked  Mrs.  Pruett, 
with  just  the  faintest  show  of  interest.  "It 
'pears  to  me  we  hyearn  you  was  dead.  What 's 
your  will  and  pleasure  wi'  me,  Mr.  Hall  ?  " 

The  unconscious  air  with  which  Mrs.  Pru- 
ett miscalled  the  young  man's  name  was  as 
effectual  as  a  blow.  He  lost  his  composure, 
and  turned  almost  helplessly  to  his  compan- 
ions. If  he  expected  sympathy  he  missed  it. 
One  of  them  laughed  loudly  and  cried  out  to 
the  others :  "  We  '11  have  to  call  him  Blow- 
hard.  Why,  he  declared  by  everything  good 
and  bad  that  he  was  just  as  chummy  with 
these  folks  as  their  own  kin.  And  now,  right 
at  the  beginning,  they  don't  even  know  his 
name." 

"  Where  's  your  husband  ?  "  inquired  Hil- 
clreth of  Hall.  "  If  he  don't  know  me  he 
will  before  the  day  's  over." 

"  He  may  know  you  better  'n  I  do,"  said 


THE  CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY         369 

Mrs.  Pruett,  "but  I  hardly  reckon  he  does, 
bekaze  I  'd  nios'  likely  'a'  hyearn  on  it." 

"  Where  is  he?  "  insisted  the  young  man. 

"Who?  my  ole  man?  Oh,  him  an'  a  whole 
passel  of  the  boys  took  their  guns  an'  went 
off  to'ards  Hillman's  spur  bright  an'  early 
this  mornin'.  They  said  signs  of  a  b'ar  had 
been  seed  thar,  but  I  allowed  to  myse'f  that 
they  was  thess  a-gwine  on  a  frolic." 

Mrs.  Pruett  took  off  her  spectacles,  wiped 
them  on  her  apron,  and  readjusted  them  to 
her  head,  smiling  serenely  all  the  while. 

"  We  may  as  well  go  to  the  Millirons'," 
remarked  Hildreth  of  Hall. 

"  I  don't  care  where  you  go,  so  you  don't 
lead  us  into  a  trap,"  remarked  one  of  the 
men. 

They  turned  away  from  Mrs.  Pruett's  and 
rode  farther  into  the  settlement.  But  they 
soon  discovered  that  Tray  Mountain  had 
practically  closed  its  gates  against  them.  The 
women  they  saw  were  as  grim  and  as  silent 
as  the  mountain.  Hildreth  of  Hall  had  been 
telling  his  companions  what  a  lively  place 
(considering  all  the  circumstances)  Hatch's 
Clearing  was,  and  this  added  to  his  embar- 
rassment  and   increased   his    irritation.      So 


370  THE  CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY 

that  you  may  well  believe  he  was  neither  gay 
nor  good-humored  when,  after  passing  several 
houses,  he  came  to  Millirons',  where  he  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  making  himself  free  and 
familiar. 

Everything  was  as  grim  and  silent  as  the 
grave,  and  John  Wesley  sat  on  the  fence  as 
grim  and  as  silent  as  any  of  the  surroundings. 

"  There  's  one  man,  anyway,"  remarked 
one  of  Hildreth's  companions.  "  Be  blanked 
if  I  don't  feel  like  going  up  and  shaking 
hands  with  him  —  that  is,  if  he 's  alive." 
For  John  Wesley  neither  turned  his  head  nor 
stirred. 

"How  are  you,  Millirons?  "  said  Hildreth 
of  Hall  curtly. 

"  Purty  well,"  replied  John  Wesley,  with- 
out moving. 

"  We  are  going  to  put  our  horses  under 
the  shed  yonder  and  give  them  a  handful  of 
fodder,"  Hildreth  of  Hall  declared.  John 
Wesley  made  no  reply  to  this.  "  Did  you 
hear  what  I  said?"  asked  the  young  man. 
somewhat  petulantly. 

"  I  hyearn  you,"  answered  John  Wesley. 

Whereupon  Hildreth  of  Hall  spurred  his 
horse  through  the  open  lot  gate,  followed  by 


THE  CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY         371 

his  companions.  They  took  off  saddles  and 
bridles,  made  some  halters  out  -  of  plough 
lines,  and  gave  their  horses  a  heavy  feed  of 
fodder.  Then  they  returned  to  the  house, 
and  found  John  Wesley  sitting  where  they 
had  left  him,  and  in  precisely  the  same  posi- 
tion. 

"  Can  we  get  dinner  ?  "  asked  Hildreth  of 
Hall. 

"  I  reckon  not,"  replied  John  Wesley. 

"Why?" 

"  Nobody  at  home  but  me  an'  the  tomcat, 
an'  we  're  locked  out.  Maybe  you  can  git 
dinner  at  Parmalee's  when  the  time  comes. 
Tbey  're  all  at  home.  But  it  hain't  nigh  din- 
ner time  yit."  John  Wesley  slowly  straight- 
ened himself  out  and  came  off  the  fence  with' 
an  apologetic  smile  on  his  face.  "  Ef  these 
gentermen  here  don't  mind,  I  'd  like  to  have 
a  word  wi'  you,  sorter  private  like."  He 
looked  at  Hildreth  of  Hall,  still  smiling. 

For  answer,  Hildreth  of  Hall  walked  to  a 
mountain  oak  a  hundred  feet  away,  followed 
by  John  Wesley.     "What  do  you  want?" 

"  I  s'pose  you  've  come  up  to  marry  the 
gal  ?  "  suggested  John  Wesley. 

"  I  have  not,"  replied  Hildreth  of  Hall. 


372  HE  CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY 

"  I  mean  Loorany  Parmalee,"  said  John 
Wesley,  pulling  a  small  piece  of  bark  from 
the  tree. 

"  It  matters  not  to  me  who  you  mean,"  re- 
marked Hildreth. 

"  I  just  wanted  to  find  out,"  John  Wesley 
went  on,  fitting  the  piece  of  bark  between 
thumb  and  forefinger  as  if  it  were  a  marble. 

"  I    allers    allowed    you  was  a  d d°g-" 

The  bark  flew  into  the  face  of  Hildreth  of 
Hall  and  left  a  stinging  red  mark  there,  as 
John  Wesley,  with  a  contemptuous  gesture, 
turned  away. 

Hildreth's  hand  flew  to  his  hip  pocket. 

"  Watch  out  there  !  "  cried  one  of  his  com- 
panions in  a  warning  tone.    "  He  '11  shoot !  " 

"  I  reckon  not,"  said  John  Wesley,  without 
turning:  his  head.  "  The  fact  of  the  business 
is,  gentermen,  they  won't  narry  one  on  you 
shoot.  A  bulldog  '11  fight,  but  you  let  him 
foller  a  sheep-killin'  houn'  to  the  pastur,  an' 
a  bench-legged  fice  can  run  'im.  You-all 
may  n't  believe  it,  but  it 's  the  fact-truth." 

But  John  Wesley  would  have  been  shot 
all  the  same  if  the  thought  had  n't  flashed 
on  Hildreth's  mind  that  the  house  was  full 
of   armed    mountaineers.      This    stayed    his 


THE  CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY         373 

hand  —  not  only  stayed  his  hand,  but,  appar- 
ently, put  him  in  a  good  humor.  He  fol- 
lowed John  Wesley  and  said  :  — 

"  As  you  are  so  brash  about  it,  we  '11  go 
and  see  the  young  lady.     Come  on,  boys." 

"'  What  about  the  horses  ?  "  asked  one  of 
the  men. 

"  Come  on,"  said  Hildreth  of  Hall  in  a 
low  voice.  "  The  horses  are  all  right.  These 
chaps  don't  steal.  Come  on ;  that  house  is 
full  of  men." 

"  I  told  you  you  were  leading  us  into  a 
trap,"  growled  one  of  his  companions;  "and 
here  we  are." 

When  they  were  out  of  sight,  John  Wes- 
ley went  into  the  lot  and  looked  at  the  horses. 
He  was  so  much  interested  in  their  comfort 
that  he  loosed  their  halters.  Then  he  cast  a 
glance  upwards  and  chuckled.  A  wasps' 
nest  as  big  as  a  man's  hat  was  hanging  be- 
tween two  of  the  rafters,  teeming  with  these 
irritable  insects.  John  Wesley  went  outside, 
climbed  up  to  the  top  of  the  shed,  counted 
the  clapboards  both  ways,  planted  himself 
above  the  wasps'  nest,  and  with  one  quick 
stamp  of  the  foot  knocked  a  hole  in  the  rot- 
ten plank.     The  noise    startled    the    horses, 


374  THE  CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY 

the  wasps  swarmed  down  on  them,  and  the 
next  instant  they  were  going  down  the  road 
the  way  they  had  come,  squealing,  whicker- 
ing, kicking,  and  running  like  mad. 

When  they  were  out  of  hearing  John  Wes- 
ley went  into  the  house  by  a  back  door,  got 
his  rifle,  and  went  off  through  the  woods. 

Hildreth  of  Hall  and  his  companions  must 
have  had  a  cool  reception  at  Parmalee's,  for 
in  about  an  hour  they  came  back  in  some 
haste.  If  they  were  alarmed,  that  feeling 
was  increased  tenfold  at  finding;  their  horses 
gone.  Their  saddles  and  bridles  were  where 
they  had  left  them,  but  the  horses  were  gone. 
They  held  a  hurried  consultation  in  the  lot, 
climbed  the  fence  instead  of  coming  out  near 
the  house,  skirted  through  the  woods,  and 
entered  the  road  near  Mrs.  Pruett's,  moving 
as  rapidly  as  men  can  who  are  not  running. 
A  half-mile  farther  down,  the  road  turned  to 
the  left  and  led  through  a  ravine. 

On  one  bank,  hid  by  the  bushes,  John 
Wesley  sat  with  his  rifle  across  his  lap,  lost 
in  meditation.  Occasionally  he  plucked  a 
rotten  twig  and  crumbled  it  in  his  fingers. 
After  a  while  he  heard  voices.  He  raised 
himself  on  his  right  knee  and  placed  his  left 


THE  CAUSE  OF  THE  DIFFICULTY  375 

foot  forward  as  an  additional  support.  Then 
he  raised  his  gun,  struck  the  stock  lightly 
with  the  palm  of  his  hand  to  shake  the 
powder  down,  and  held  himself  in  readiness. 
When  the  men  came  in  sight  Hildreth  of 
Hall  was  slightly  in  advance  of  the  others. 

John  Wesley  slowly  raised  his  rifle  and 
was  about  to  bring  the  barrel  to  a  level  with 
his  eyes  when  he  saw  a  flash  of  fire  on  the 
opposite  bank,  and  heard  the  sharp  crack  of 
a  rifle.  He  was  so  taken  by  surprise  that  he 
raised  himself  in  the  bushes  and  looked  about 
him.  Hildreth  of  Hall  had  tumbled  forward 
in  a  heap  at  the  flash,  and  the  other  men 
jumped  over  his  body  and  ran  like  rabbits. 
Before  the  hatful  of  smoke  had  lifted  to  the 
level  of  the  tree-tops  they  were  out  of  hear- 
ing. 

John  Wesley  crossed  the  road  and  went  to 
the  other  side.  There  he  saw  Loorany  Parma- 
lee  leaning  against  a  tree,  breathing  hard. 
At  her  feet  lay  a  rifle. 

"  You  sp'iled  my  game,"  he  remarked. 

"  Is  he  dead  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  E'en  about,"  he  replied.  She  threw  her 
head  back  and  breathed  hard.  John  Wesley 
picked  up  the  rifle  and  examined  it. 


376  THE  CAUSE  OF  TEE  DIFFICULTY 

"  Was  you  gwine  to  kill  him  ? "  Loorany 
asked. 

"  Well,  sorter  that  away,  I  reckon." 

"  Did  you  have  the  notion  that  I  'd  marry 
you  atter wards  ?  " 

"  I  wa'n't  a-gwine  to  ax  you,"  said  John 
Wesley. 

"  Will  you  take  me  now,  jest  as  I  am  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  reckon,"  he  replied,  in  a  matter- 
of-fact  tone. 

So  they  went  home  and  left  other  people 
to  look  after  Hildreth  of  Hall. 

In  course  of  time  a  boy  was  born  to  Loo- 
rany Millirons,  and  the  event  made  her  hus- 
band a  widower,  but  the  child  was  never 
known  by  any  other  name  than  that  of  Toog 
Parmalee  —  and  Toog  was  the  chap  that  shot 
his  sweetheart. 

All  these  things,  as  Mrs.  Pruett  said,  were 
the  cause  of  the  difficulty  you  read  about  in 
the  newspapers  the  other  day.  "  Thribble 
the  generations,"  she  added,  "  an'  sin's  arm 
is  long  enough  to  retch  through  'em  all." 


THE  BABY'S  CHRISTMAS 


Rockvillb  ought  to  have  been  a  har- 
monious community  if  there  ever  was  one. 
The  same  families  had  been  living  there  for 
generations,  and  they  had  intermarried  un- 
til everybody  was  everybody  else's  cousin. 
Those  who  were  no  kin  at  all  called  one  an- 
other cousin  in  public,  —  such  is  the  force 
of  example  and  habit.  Little  children  play- 
ing with  other  children  would  hear  them  call 
one  another  cousin,  and  so  the  habit  grew 
until  even  the  few  newcomers  who  took  up 
their  abode  in  Rockville  speedily  became 
cousins. 

There  were  different  degrees  of  prosperity 
in  the  village  before  and  during  the  war,  but 
everybody  was  comfortably  well  off,  so  that 
there  was  no  necessity  for  drawing  social  dis- 
tinctions. Those  who  were  comparatively 
poor  boasted  of  good  blood,  and  they  made 
as   nice    cousins    as    those  who   were    richer. 


378  THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS 

When  the  editor  of  the  "  Vacle  Mecuni " 
wished  to  impress  on  his  subscribers  the  ne- 
cessity of  settling  their  accounts,  he  prefaced 
his  remarks  with  this  statement :  "  We  are  a 
homogeneous  people.  We  are  united.  What 
is  the  interest  of  one  is  the  interest  of  all. 
We  must  continue  to  preserve  our  harmony." 

But  envy  knows  no  race  or  clime,  and  it 
had  taken  up  its  abode  among  the  cousins  of 
Rockville.  It  was  not  even  rooted  out  by  the 
disastrous  results  of  the  war,  which  tended 
to  bring  each  and  every  cousin  down  to  the 
same  level  of  hopeless  poverty.  When,  there- 
fore, Colonel  Asbury  announced  in  the  streets 
that  his  wife  had  concluded  to  take  boarders, 
and  caused  to  be  inserted  in  the  "  Vade  Me- 
cum  "  a  notice  to  the  effect  that  "  a  few  select 
parties "  could  find  accommodations  at  The 
Cedars,  there  were  a  good  many  smothered 
exclamations  of  affected  surprise  among  the 
cousins,  with  no  little  secret  satisfaction  that 
"  Cousin  Becky  T."  had  at  last  been  com- 
pelled to  "  get  off  her  high  horse,"  —  to 
employ  the  vernacular  of  Rockville. 

Such  an  announcement  was  certainly  the 
next  thing  to  a  crash  in  the  social  fabric, 
and  while  some  of  the  cousins  were  secretly 


THE  BABTS   CHRISTMAS  379 

pleased,  there  were  others  who  shook  their 
heads  in  sorrow,  feeling  that  a  deep  and  last- 
in  o-  humiliation  had  been  visited  on  the  com- 
munity.  For  if  ever  a  human  being  was 
seized  and  possessed  by  pride  of  family  and 
position,  that  person  was  Cousin  Becky  T. 
Her  pride  was  reenforced  by  a  will  as  firm, 
and  an  individuality  as  strong,  as  ever  wo- 
man had  ;  and  these  characteristics  were  so 
marked  that  she  was  never  known  among  her 
acquaintances  as  Mrs.  Asbury,  but  always  as 
Rebecca  Tumlin  or  "  Cousin  Rebecca  T." 
The  colonel  himself  invariably  referred  to 
her,  even  in  his  most  hilarious  moments,  as 
Rebecca  Tumlin.  Times  were  hard  indeed 
when  this  gentlewoman  could  be  induced  to 
throw  open  to  boarders  the  fine  old  mansion, 
with  its  massive  white  pillars  standing  out 
against  a  background  of  red  brick. 

The  colonel  had  three  plantations,  —  one 
near  Rockville,  one  in  the  low  country,  and 
one  in  the  Cherokee  region  ;  but  in  1868 
these  possessions  were  a  burden  to  him  to 
the  extent  of  the  taxes  he  was  compelled  to 
pay.  There  was  no  market  for  agricultural 
lands.  The  value  they  might  have  had  was 
swallowed  up  in  the  poverty  and  depression 


380  THE  BABY'S    CHRISTMAS 

that  enveloped  everything  in  the  region 
where  war  had  dropped  its  litter  of  furies. 
Colonel  Asbury  might  have  practiced  law : 
he  did  practice  it,  in  fact  ;  but  it  was  like 
building  a  windmill  over  a  dry  well. 

Cousin  Rebecca  Tumlin  finally  solved  the 
problem  by  announcing  that  she  purposed  to 
take  boarders.  No  one  ever  knew  what  it 
cost  her  to  make  that  announcement.  Envi- 
ous people  suspected  the  nature  of  the  strug- 
gle through  which  she  passed,  —  the  hard 
and  bitter  struggle  between  pride  and  neces- 
sity, —  and  some  of  them  predicted  it  would 
do  her  good.  The  colonel,  who  was  proud 
after  his  own  fashion,  and  also  sympathetic, 
was  shocked  at  first  and  then  grieved.  But 
he  made  no  remark.  Comment  was  unneces- 
sary. He  walked  back  and  forth  on  the 
colonnade,  and  measured  many  a  mile  before 
his  agitation  was  allayed.  More  than  once 
he  went  down  the  long  graveled  avenue,  and 
turned  and  gazed  fondly  at  the  perspective 
that  carried  the  eye  to  the  fine  old  house. 
It  seemed  as  if  he  were  bidding'  farewell  to 
the  beauty  and  glory  of  it  all.  But  he  made 
no  complaint.  When  he  grew  tired  of  walk- 
ing, he  went  in  with  the  intention  of  taking 


THE  BABY'S  CHRISTMAS  381 

down  some  family  pictures  that  adorned  the 
walls  of  the  wide  hall.  But  his  wife  had 
forestalled  him.  The  house,  by  a  few  deft 
changes,  had  been  made  as  cheerless  as  the 
most  fastidious  boarder  could  wish. 

And  so  the  word  went  round  that  Cousin 
Rebecca  Tumlin  would  be  pleased  to  take 
boarders.  The  response  was  all  that  she 
could  have  desired.  The  young  men  —  the 
bachelor  storekeepers  and  their  clerks  —  de- 
serted the  rickety  old  tavern  and  the  smaller 
boarding-houses,  and  took  up  their  abode  at 
The  Cedars,  and  soon  the  house  was  gay  with 
a  company  that  was  profitable  if  not  pleasant. 

The  advent  of  boarders  —  some  of  them 
transient  traveling  -  men  —  opened  a  new 
world  for  Mary  Asbury,  Cousin  Rebecca 
Tumlin's  daughter,  and  she  made  the  most 
of  it.  She  followed  the  example  of  her  fa- 
ther, the  colonel,  and  made  herself  agreeable 
to  the  young  men.  She  made  herself  espe- 
cially agreeable  to  Laban  Pierson,  the  young 
conductor  of  the  daily  train  on  the  little 
branch  railroad  that  connected  Rockville 
with  the  outside  world.  Cousin  Rebecca  T. 
held  herself  severely  aloof  from  her  boarders, 
but  her  attitude  was  so  serene  and  graceful, 


382  THE  BABY'S  CHRISTMAS 

so  evidently  the  natural  and  correct  thing, 
that  it  caused  no  ill-natured  comment.  Mary 
was  sixteen,  and  when  she  sat  at  the  head  of 
the  table,  her  mother  was  not  missed.  The 
young-  girl's  manners  were  a  rare  combina- 
tion of  sweetness,  grace,  and  dignity.  She 
was  affable,  she  was  thoughtful,  and  she  had 
a  fair  share  of  her  father's  humor.  Above 
all,  she  was  beautiful.  Naturally,  therefore, 
while  her  mother  nursed  her  pride,  and 
counted  the  money,  Mary  beamed  on  the 
boarders,  and  her  father  drew  upon  his  vast 
fund  of  anecdote  for  their  instruction  and 
amusement. 

Laban  Pierson  was  not  a  very  brilliant 
young  man,  but  he  was  fairly  good-looking, 
and  he  knew  how  to  make  himself  agreeable. 
His  train  arrived  at  Rockville  at  half-past  two 
in  the  afternoon,  and  left  at  five  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  so  that  he  had  plenty  of  time  to 
make  himself  agreeable  to  Miss  Mary  Asbury, 
and  he  did  so  with  only  a  vague  notion  of 
what  the  end  would  be.  Mary  made  herself 
agreeable  to  Laban  simply  because  it  was  her 
nature  to  be  pleasant  to  everybody.  As  for 
any  other  reason,  —  why,  the  idea  of  such  a 
thing  !     If  young  Pierson   had  told  himself 


THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS  383 

that  lie  was  courting  Mary  Asbury,  he  would 
have  blushed  with  alarm.  Perhaps  he  would 
have  left  The  Cedars  and  gone  to  the  old 
tavern  again.  Who  knows?  Young"  men 
will  do  very  desperate  things  at  certain 
stages  of  their  checkered  careers. 

It  was  the  old  story  with  its  own  particular 
variations.  Mary  loved  Laban,  and  was  too 
shy  to  know  what  she  was  about.  Laban 
loved  Mary,  and  never  discovered  it  until  the 
disease  had  become  epidemic  in  his  system, 
and  spread  over  his  heart  and  mind  in  every 
direction.  Neither  one  of  them  discovered 
it.  It  was  a  beautiful  dream,  too  good  to  be 
true,  too  sweet  to  last.  Finally  the  discovery 
was  made  by  old  Aunt  Mirny,  the  cook,  who 
had  never  seen  Mary  and  Laban  together. 
The  affair,  if  it  can  be  called  by  so  imposing 
a  name,  had  been  going  on  a  year  or  more, 
and  Mary  was  past  seventeen,  when  one  after- 
noon the  train  failed  to  arrive  on  time.  The 
afternoon  wore  into  evening,  and  still  the 
train  did  not  come.  Mary  had  the  habit  of 
sitting  in  the  kitchen  with  Aunt  Mirny  when 
anything  troubled  her,  and  on  this  particular 
afternoon,  after  waiting  an  hour  for  the  train, 
she  went  to  her  old  seat  near   the  window. 


384  THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS 

Aunt  Mirny  was  beating  biscuit.  Mary 
looked  out  of  the  window  toward  the  depot. 

"  Train  ain't  come  yit,  is  she,  honey  ?  " 
asked  Aunt  Mirny. 

"No,  not  yet,"  replied  Mary.  "What  can 
be  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Run  off  de  trussle,  I  speck,"  said  Aunt 
Mirny. 

"  0  mammy  !  "  cried  Mary,  starting  to  her 
feet ;  "  do  you  really  think  so  ?  What  have 
you  heard  ?  " 

The  girl  stood  with  one  hand  against  her 
bosom,  her  face  pale,  and  her  nether  lip  trem- 
bling. Aunt  Mimy  regarded  her  with  aston- 
ishment for  a  moment,  and  then  the  shrewd 
old  negro  jumped  to  a  conclusion.  She  paused 
with  her  arm  uplifted. 

"  Is  yo'  ma  on  dat  train  ?  Is  yo'  pa  on 
dat  train  ?  What  de  name  er  de  Lord  you 
got  ter  do  wid  dat  train  ?  " 

She  brought  the  beater  down  on  the  pliant 
dough  with  a  resounding  thwack.  Mary  hid 
her  face  in  her  hands.  After  a  little  she 
went  out,  leaving  Aunt  Mimy  mumbling  and 
talking  to  herself. 

The  cook  lost  no  time  in  relating  this  inci- 
dent  to  Cousin  Rebecca  T.,  and  that  lady  lost 


THE  BABY'S  CHRISTMAS  385 

just  as  little  in  making  plain  to  her  daughter 
the  folly  and  futility  of  interesting  herself 
in  such  a  person  as  the  young  conductor. 
Cousin  Rebecca  T.  gave  Mary  a  brief,  but 
picturesque  biography  of  Laban  Pierson. 
His  family  belonged  to  the  poor  white  trash 
before  the  war,  and  he  was  no  better. 
Muddy  well,  muddy  water.  He  had  been  a 
train-hand,  a  brakeman,  baggage-master,  and 
what  not.  The  colonel  was  called  in  to  ver- 
ify these  biographical  details. 

Mary's  reply  to  it  all  was  characteristic. 
She  listened  and  smiled,  and  tossed  her  head. 

"  What  do  I  care  about  Laban  Pierson  ? 
What  have  /  to  do  with  his  affairs  ?  Ous"ht 
I  to  have  jumped  for  joy  when  mammy  told 
me  the  train  had  dropped  through  the  tres- 
tle ?  " 

The  colonel  accepted  this  logic  without 
question,  but  Cousin  Rebecca  T.  saw  through 
it.  She  was  a  woman,  and  had  a  natural 
contempt  for  logic,  especially  a  woman's 
logic.  She  simply  realized  that  she  had 
made  a  mistake.  She  had  gone  about  the 
matter  in  the  wrong  way.  As  for  Mary,  she 
had  found  out  her  own  secret.  She  hard- 
ened her  heart  against  Aunt  Mimy,  and  when 


386  THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS 

the  old  woman  sought  an  explanation,  it  was 
readily  forthcoming. 

"  You  got  me  into  trouble,"  said  Mary ; 
"  you  won't  get  me  into  any  more  if  I  can 
help  it."  Aunt  Mirny  grieved  over  the  situ- 
ation to  such  an  extent  that  she  made  her- 
self disagreeable  to  everybody,  especially  to 
Cousin  Rebecca  T.  She  broke  dishes,  she 
burned  the  waffles,  she  flung  the  dish-water 
into  the  yard,  and  for  a  day  or  two  she 
whipped  the  little  negroes  every  time  she  got 
her  hands  on  them. 

Cousin  Rebecca  T.  did  not  let  the  matter 
drop,  as  she  might  have  done.  The  colonel 
used  to  tell  his  intimate  friends  that  his  wife 
had  a  fearful  amount  of  misdirected  energy, 
and  the  results  that  it  wrought  in  this  par- 
ticular instance  justified  the  colonel's  descrip- 
tion. Cousin  Rebecca  T.  went  straight  to 
young  Laban  Pierson,  and  gave  him  to  under- 
stand, without  circumlocution  or  mincing  of 
words,  what  she  thought  of  any  possible  no- 
tion he  had  or  might  have  of  uniting  his  for- 
ts o 

tunes  with  those  of  her  daughter.  As  might 
have  been  expected,  Laban  was  thunder- 
struck. He  blushed  violently,  turned  pale, 
stammered,  and,  in   short,  acted  just  as  any 


THE  BABY'S  CHRISTMAS  387 

other  young  fellow  would  act  when  con- 
fronted with  his  own  secret  thoughts  and  de- 
sires, hardly  acknowledged  even  to  himself. 
To  Cousin  Rebecca  T.  all  this  was  in  the 
nature  of  a  confession  of  guilt,  and  she  con- 
gratulated herself  on  the  promptness  with 
which  she  had  put  an  end  to  the  whole  mis- 
erable business.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  did 
what  many  another  hasty-tempered  woman 
has  done  before  her  ;  she  kindled  into  flame 
a  spark  that  might  have  expired  if  let  alone. 

Young  Mr.  Pierson  promptly  took  himself 
away  from  The  Cedars,  and  it  was  not  until 
after  he  was  gone  that  the  other  guests  dis- 
covered what  an  interesting  companion  he 
was  at  table  and  on  the  wide  veranda.  They 
began  to  talk  about  him  and  to  discuss  his 
good  qualities.  He  was  a  clean,  manly, 
bright,  industrious,  genial,  generous  young 
fellow.  This  was  the  verdict.  The  colonel, 
missing  the  cigars  that  Laban  was  in  the 
habit  of  bringing  him,  and  resenting  the  sit- 
uation (inflamed,  perhaps,  by  a  little  too  much 
toddy),  went  further,  and  said  that  in  the 
whole  course  of  his  career,  sir,  he  had  never 
seen  a  finer  young  man,  sir.  So  that  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  Laban  sat  at  the  table  no 
longer,  he  was  more  in  evidence  than  ever. 


388  THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS 

Affairs  went  on  without  a  break  or  a 
ripple.  Occasionally  Mary  would  walk  in 
the  direction  of  the  depot  in  the  afternoon, 
and  whenever  she  saw  Laban  she  made  it  a 
point  to  bow  to  him,  and  this  salutation  he 
always  returned  with  marked  emphasis.  But 
Mary  was  not  happy.  She  no  longer  went 
sinoino;  through  the  house.  She  was  cheer- 
ful,  but  not  in  the  old  fashion.  No  one  no- 
ticed the  change  but  old  Aunt  Mirny,  and 
perhaps  she  would  have  been  blind  to  it  if 
her  conscience  had  not  hurt  her.  The  old 
woman's  conscience  was  not  specially  active 
or  sensitive,  but  her  affections  were  set  on 
Mary,  and  for  many  long  weeks  the  girl  had 
hardly  deigned  to  speak  to  her.  Conscience 
lives  next  door  to  the  affections.  Aunt  Mirny 
rebelled  against  hers  for  a  long  time,  but  at 
last  it  roused  her  to  action. 

One  afternoon,  when  dinner  had  been 
cleared  away,  she  filled  her  pipe,  adjusted 
her  head-kerchief,  and  sallied  out  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  depot.  The  wheezy  old  loco- 
motive was  enffaffed  in  shifting-  the  cars 
about,  and  Conductor  Pierson  was  assisting 
the  brakeman.  Aunt  Mirny  seated  herself 
on  the  depot  platform,  smoked  her  pipe,  and 


THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS  389 

patiently  waited  till  the  shunting  was  over. 
Then  she  placed  herself  in  Pierson's  way. 
He  seemed  to  be  preoccupied,  but  the  old 
woman  did  not  stand  on  ceremony. 

"  Look  like  our  victuals  wa'n't  good  'nough 
fer  you,"  she  said  bluntly. 

"  Why,  this  is  Aunt  Mirny  !  "  He  shook 
hands  with  her,  and  asked  about  her  health, 
and  this  pleased  her  very  much.  He  asked 
about  the  family,  and  especially  about  Miss 
Mary.  When  it  came  to  this,  Aunt  Mirny 
took  her  pipe  out  of  her  mouth,  drew  a  long 
breath,  and  shook  her  head.  She  could  have 
given  points  on  the  art  of  pantomime  to  any 
strolling  company  of  players.  The  whole  his- 
tory of  the  sad  case  of  Mary  Asbury  was  in 
the  lift  of  her  eyebrows,  the  motions  of  her 
head,  and  in  her  sorrowful  sigh  ;  and  Con- 
ductor Pierson  seemed  to  be  able  to  read  a 
part  of  it,  for  he  asked  Aunt  Mirny  into  the 
passenger-coach,  and  there  the  two  sat  and 
talked  until  it  was  time  for  Aunt  Mirny  to  go 
home  and  see  about  supper. 

That  night,  as  Aunt  Mirny  sat  on  the 
kitchen  steps  smoking  her  pipe  and  resting 
herself,  preparatory  to  going  to  bed,  she  saw 
Mary  sitting  at  her  room  window  looking  out 


390  THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS 

into  the  moonlight.  It  was  not  a  very  beau- 
tiful scene  that  fell  under  the  young  girl's 
eye.  There  was  nothing  romantic  or  pictur- 
esque in  the  view  of  the  back  yard,  with  the 
kitchen  and  the  comical  figure  of  the  fat  old 
cook  in  the  foreground  :  but  when  a  young 
girl  is  in  love,  it  is  wonderful  what  a  mellow- 
ing influence  the  moonlight  has  on  the  most 
forbidding  scene.  It  pushes  the  shadows 
into  strange  places,  and  softens  and  subdues 
all  that  is  angular  and  ugly.  Take  the  moon 
out  of  our  scheme,  and  a  good  deal  of  our 
poetry  and  romance  would  vanish  with  it, 
and  even  true  love  would  take  on  a  prosiness 
that  it  does  not  now  possess. 

Aunt  Mirny  looked  at  Mary,  and  felt  sorry 
for  her.  Mary  looked  at  Aunt  Mirny,  and 
felt  that  she  would  be  glad  to  be  able  to 
despise  the  old  negro  if  she  could.  Aunt 
Mirny  spoke  to  her  presently  in  a  subdued, 
insinuating  tone. 

"  Is  dat  you,  honey  ?  " 

"Yes."  " 

"  Better  fling  on  yo'  cape  "  — 

"  I  'm  not  cold." 

"  An'  come  down  here  an'  talk  wid  me." 

"  I  don't  feel  like  talking." 


THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS  391 

"  Been  long  time  sence  you  felt  like  talkin' 
wid  me.  Well,  dem  dat  don't  talk  don't 
never  hear  tell." 

She  pulled  from  somewhere  under  her 
apron  something  white  and  oblong,  dropped 
it  on  the  ground  purposely,  picked  it  up,  and 
put  it  back  under  her  apron.  Then  she 
said  :  — 

"  Good-night,  honey !  I  ain't  tellin'  you 
good-night  des  fer  myse'f." 

Aunt  Mirny's  tone  was  charged  with  infor- 
mation. Mary  vanished  from  the  window, 
and  came  tripping  out  to  the  kitchen.  Then 
followed  a  whispered  conversation  between 
the  cook  and  the  young  lady.  At  something 
or  other  that  Aunt  Mimy  said  to  her  — 
some  quaint  comment,  or  maybe  a  happy 
piece  of  intelligence  —  Mary  laughed  loudly. 
The  sound  of  it  reached  the  ears  of  Cousin 
Rebecca  T.,  who  was  playing  whist.  The 
colonel  was  dealing.  She  slipped  away  from 
the  table,  peeped  through  the  blinds  of  the 
dining-room,  and  was  just  in  time  to  see  Aunt 
Mimy  hand  Mary  something  that  had  the 
appearance  of  a  letter.  She  returned  to  the 
whist-table,  revoked  on  the  first  round,  and 
trumped    her  partner's  trick   on   the  second. 


392  THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS 

Such  a  thing  had  never  been  heard  of  before. 
Her  partner  shook  his  head,  and  buried  his 
face  in  his  cards.  Her  husband  regarded 
her  with  amazement.  She  made  no  excuse 
or  explanation,  but  in  the  next  two  hands 
more  than  made  up  in  brilliant  play  for  the 
advantage  she  had  lost. 

Meanwhile  Mary  was  reading  the  letter 
that  Laban  Pierson  had  sent  her.  It  was  a 
frank,  manly  declaration  of  his  love  expressed 
in  plain  and  simple  language.  He  had  writ- 
ten, he  said,  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment, 
but  he  did  not  propose  to  engage  in  a  clan- 
destine correspondence.  He  did  not  invite 
or  expect  a  reply,  but  would  always  —  ah, 
well,  the  formula  was  the  same  old  one  that 
we  are  all  familiar  with. 

Mary  placed  the  letter  where  she  could 
feel  her  heart  beat  against  it,  and  went  to 
bed  happy,  and  was  soon  dreaming  about 
Laban  Pierson.  Cousin  Rebecca  T.  played 
whist  fiercely  and  won  continuously.  After 
the  game  was  over,  she  went  upstairs,  stirred 
a  stiff  toddy  for  the  colonel,  and  put  him  to 
bed.  Then  she  went  into  her  daughter's 
room,  shading  the  lamp  with  her  hand  so 
that   the  light  would  not  arouse    Innocence 


THE  BABY'S  CHRISTMAS  393 

from  its  happy  dreams.  She  moved  as  noise- 
lessly as  Lady  Macbeth  moves  in  the  play, 
though  not  with  the  same  intent.  She 
searched  everywhere  for  the  letter,  and  at 
last  found  it  where  a  more  feminine  woman 
would  have  hunted  for  it  at  first.  One  cor- 
ner of  this  human  document  was  peeping 
modestly  forth  from  the  virgin  bosom  of  In- 
nocence. Deftly,  gently,  even  lovingly, 
Cousin  Rebecca  T.  lifted  the  letter  from  its 
warm  and  shy  covert. 

It  was  a  very  simple  thing  to  do,  but  there 
were  hours  and  days  and  years  when  Cousin 
Rebecca  T.  would  have  given  all  her  posses- 
sions to  have  left  the  letter  nestling  in  her 
daughter's  bosom  ;  for,  in  lifting  it  out,  Inno- 
cence was  aroused  from  its  sleep  and  caught 
Experience  in  the  very  act  of  making  a  fool 
of  itself.  Mary  opened  her  wondering  eyes, 
and  found  her  mother  with  Laban's  letter  in 
her  hand.  The  young  lady  sat  bolt  upright 
in  bed.  Cousin  Rebecca  T.  was  inwardly 
startled,  but  outwardly  she  was  as  calm  as  the 
moonlight  that  threw  its  slanting  shadows 
eastward. 

"  I  don't  wonder  that  you  blush,"  she  cried, 
holding  up  the  letter. 


394  THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS 

"  Do  you  think  I  am  blushing  for  my- 
self ?  "  asked  Mary. 

"  If  you  know  what  shame  is,  you  ought 
to  feel  it  now,"  exclaimed  her  mother. 

"I  do  —  I  do,"  said  Mary,  with  rising 
indignation.  "  After  to-night  I  shall  always 
be  ashamed  of  myself  and  of  my  family." 

Cousin  Rebecca  T.,  stung  by  the  tone  and 
by  this  first  sign  of  rebellion,  turned  upon 
her  daughter;  but  her  anger  quickly  died 
away,  for  she  saw  in  her  daughter's  eyes  her 
own  courage  and  her  own  unconquerable 
will. 

The  scene  did  not  end  there,  but  the  rest 
of  it  need  not  be  described  here.  Innocence 
has  as  long  a  tongue  as  Experience  when  it 
feels  itself  wronged,  and  the  result  of  this 
family  quarrel  was  that  Innocence  went  far- 
ther than  Experience  would  have  dared  to 
go.  When  Laban  Pierson's  train  went  puff- 
ing- out  of  Rockville  at  five  o'clock  the  next 
morning,  it  carried  among  its  few  passengers 
Miss  Mary  Asbury  and  old  Aunt  Mirny.  The 
colonel  and  Cousin  Rebecca  T.  lost  a  daugh- 
ter, and  their  boarders  had  to  wait  a  long 
time  for  their  breakfast  or  go  without. 

The  next  number  of  the  "  Vade  Mecum  " 


THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS  395 

had  a  beautifully  written  account  of  the  mar- 
riage of  Mary  Asbury  to  Laban  Pierson,  un- 
der the  double  heading 

Love  Laughs  at  Locksmiths 
a  local  romance  with  a  happy  ending 

Cousin  Rebecca  T.  turned  up  her  nose  at 
the  newspaper  account,  but  the  colonel  cut  it 
out  and  hid  it  away  in  his  large  morocco 
pocket-book.  That  night,  after  he  had 
taken  his  toddy  and  was  sound  asleep,  Cousin 
Rebecca  T.  took  the  clipping  from  its  hiding- 
place,  and  read  it  over  carefully.  Then  she 
put  out  the  light,  and  sat  by  the  window  and 
cried  until  far  into  the  night.  But  she  cried 
so  softly  that  a  little  bird,  sitting  on  its  nest 
in  the  honeysuckle  vine  not  two  feet  away 
from  the  lady's  grief,  did  not  take  its  head 
from  under  its  wing. 

II 

This  was  at  the  beginning  of  1870,  and 
about  this  time  Colonel  Asbury's  fortunes 
took  a  decided  turn  for  the  better.  During 
the  war,  in  a  spirit  of  speculative  reckless- 
ness, he  had  invested  thirty  thousand  dollars 
in  Confederate  money  in  ten  thousand  acres 


396  THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS 

of  land  in  Texas.  He  thought  so  little  of  the 
investment  then,  and  afterwards,  that  he  did 
not  take  the  trouble  to  pay  the  taxes.  But 
the  purchase  of  the  land  was  a  fortunate 
stroke  for  the  colonel.  In  1870  land-values 
in  Texas  were  not  what  they  were  in  Georgia. 
That  vast  southwestern  empire  (as  the  phrase 
goes)  was  just  beginning  to  attract  the  atten- 
tion of  Northern  and  foreign  capital.  Rail- 
way promoters,  British  land  syndicates,  and 
native  boomers,  were  combining  to  develop 
the  material  resources  of  the  wonderful  State. 
In  the  early  part  of  1870,  a  powerful  com- 
bination of  railway  promoters  determined  to 
build  a  line  straight  through  the  colonel's 
Texan  possessions.  His  land  there  increased 
in  value  to  thirty  dollars,  and  then  to  forty 
dollars,  an  acre,  at  which  figure  the  colonel 
was  induced  to  part  with  his  titles.  Cousin 
Rebecca  Tumlin  thus  found  herself  to  be 
the  wife  of  a  very  rich  man,  and  her  pride  at 
last  found  something  substantial  to  cling  to. 
The  Cedars  ceased  to  be  a  boarding-house. 
The  old  family  pictures  were  brought  down 
from  the  garret,  dusted,  and  hung  in  their  ac- 
customed places.  Great  improvements  were 
made  in  the  place,  and  Cousin  Rebecca  and 


THE  BABY'S  CHRISTMAS  397 

the  colonel  sat  down  to  enjoy  life  as  they 
thought  it  ought  to  be  enjoyed. 

But  something  was  lacking.  Life  did  not 
run  as  pleasantly  as  before.  The  dollar  that 
brings  content  is  at  such  a  high  premium 
among  the  nations  of  the  earth  that  it  can 
never  be  made  the  standard  of  value.  That 
dollar  was  not  among  the  four  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars  the  colonel  received  for  his  Texan 
lands.  The  old  style  did  not  fit  the  new  times. 
The  colonel's  old  friends  did  not  fall  away 
from  him,  but  they  were  less  friendly  and 
more  obsequious.  His  daughter  did  not  come 
forward  to  ask  his  forgiveness  and  his  blessing. 
Something  was  wrong  somewhere.  The  colo- 
nel and  Cousin  Rebecca  Tumlin  fretted  a 
good  deal,  and  finally  concluded  to  move  to 
Atlanta.  So  they  closed  their  house  in  Rock- 
ville,  and  built  a  mansion  in  Peachtree  Street 
in  the  city  whose  name  has  come  to  be  iden- 
tified with  all  that  is  progressive  in  the 
South. 

The  building  is  on  the  left  as  you  go  out 
Peachtree.  You  can't  mistake  it.  It  is  a 
queer  mixture  of  summer  cottage  and  feudal 
castle,  with  a  great  deal  of  fussy  detail  that 
bewilders   the   eye,   and   a   serene   stretch  of 


398  THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS 

roof  broken  by  a  delirious  display  of  scroll- 
work. It  is  Rebecca  Tumlin  all  over ;  pride 
—  pride  nailed  to  the  grim  walls,  and  vexa- 
tion of  spirit  worked  into  the  ornamentation. 
Yet  it  is  a  house  that  easily  catches  the  eye. 
It  is  on  a  little  elevation,  and  it  has  about  it 
a  certain  suggestion  of  individuality.  On 
the  dome  of  the  middle  gable  a  smart  and 
business-like  dragon  upholds  the  weather-vane 
with  his  curled  and  gilded  tail. 

The  colonel  prospered  steadily.  He  was 
regarded  as  one  of  the  most  successful  busi- 
ness men  and  financiers  the  South  has  ever 
produced.  It  is  no  wonder  the  Bible  jmrable 
gives  money  the  name  of  "  talent."  It  is  a 
talent.  Give  it  half  a  chance,  and  it  is  the 
most  active  talent  that  man  possesses.  It  is 
always  in  a  state  of  fermentation ;  it  grows ; 
it  accumulates.  At  any  rate,  the  colonel 
thought  so.  His  capital  carried  him  into  the 
inner  circles  of  investment  and  speculation, 
and  he  found  himself  growing  richer  and 
richer,  only  vaguely  realizing  how  the  result 
was  brouo'ht  about. 

The  receptions  at  the  Asbury  mansion  were 
conceded  to  be  the  most  fashionable  that  At- 
lanta had  ever  seen  ;  for  along  in  the  seventies 


THE  BABY'S  CHRISTMAS  399 

Atlanta  was  merely  experimenting  with  the 
social  instinct.  The  "  smart  set  "  had  no 
kind  of  organization.  Society  was  engaged 
in  disentangling  itself  from  the  furious  busi- 
ness energy  that  has  made  Atlanta  the  best- 
known  city  in  the  South.  It  was  at  this 
juncture  that  Cousin  Rebecca  T.,  with  her 
money,  her  taste,  and  her  ambition  to  lead, 
appeared  on  the  scene.  She  had  all  the  re- 
quisites of  a  leader.  Pride  is  a  quickening 
quality,  and  it  had  ^made  of  Cousin  Rebecca 
T.  a  most  accomplished  woman.  There  was 
something  attractive  and  refreshing  about  her 
strong  individuality.  There  was  a  simplicity 
about  her  methods  that  commended  her  to 
the  social  experimenters,  who  stood  in  great 
awe  of  forms  and  conventions. 

Naturally,  therefore,  the  Asbury  mansion 
was  the  social  centre.  The  younger  set  gath- 
ered there  to  be  gay,  and  the  married  peo- 
ple went  there  to  meet  their  friends.  But 
many  and  many  a  night  after  the  lights 
were  out  in  the  parlors,  and  the  gas  was 
turned  low  in  the  hall,  Cousin  Rebecca  T. 
and  the  colonel  sat  and  thought  about  their 
daughter  Mary,  each'  refraining  from  men- 
tioning her  name  to  the  other,  —  the  colonel 


400  THE  BABY'S  CHRISTMAS 

because  lie  was  afraid  of  irritating  his  wife, 
and  Cousin  Rebecca  T.  because  she  was 
afraid  of  exhibiting  any  weakness  before  her 
husband.  Each,  unknown  to  the  other,  had 
set  on  foot  inquiries  in  regard  to  the  where- 
abouts of  Mary,  and  the  fact  that  the  in- 
quiries elicited  no  response  and  no  informa- 
tion gave  the  two  old  people  a  more  valid 
excuse  for  misery  than  they  had  ever  known. 
The  trouble  was  that  their  inquiries  had 
begun  too  late.  For  a  few  months  after  her 
marriage  the  colonel  had  kept  himself  in- 
formed about  his  daughter.  He  expected 
her  to  write  to  him.  He  had  a  vague  and 
unformed  notion  that  in  due  season  Mary 
would  return  and  ask  her  mother's  forgive- 
ness, and  then,  if  Cousin  Rebecca  T.  showed 
any  hardness  of  heart,  he  proposed  to  put 
his  foot  down,  and  show  her  that  he  was  not 
a  cipher  in  the  family.  The  mother,  for  her 
part,  fully  expected  that  some  day  when  she 
was  going  about  the  house,  neither  doing 
nor  thinking  of  anything  in  particular,  her 
daughter  would  rush  suddenly  in  upon  her 
and  tell  her  between  laughter  and  tears  that 
there  was  no  happiness  away  from  home. 
Cousin     Rebecca     T.  had   her  part   all   pre- 


THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS  401 

pared.  She  would  frown  at  first,  and  then 
throw  her  arms  around  Mary,  and  tell  her 
what  a  naughty  girl  she  had  been. 

But  all  this  mental  preparation  was  in  vain. 
Weeks,  months,  and '  years  passed  by,  but 
Mary  never  came.  When  the  colonel  and 
Cousin  Rebecca  T.  woke  up  to  their  new 
prosperity,  they  were  very  busily  engaged  for 
some  time  in  fitting  themselves  to  it.  It  was 
during  this  period  that  Mary  and  her  hus- 
band disappeared.  The  colonel  heard  in  a 
vague  way  that  Laban  Pierson  had  moved  to 
Atlanta,  and  that  from  Atlanta  he  had  gone 
out  West.     All  the  rest  was  mystery. 

But  it  was  no  mystery  to  Laban  and  Mary. 
For  a  little  while  their  affairs  went  along 
comfortably.  Laban  became  the  conductor 
of  a  passenger-train  on  the  main  line  of  the 
Central  of  Georgia.  Then  he  moved  to  At- 
lanta. Afterward  he  accepted  a  position  on 
the  Louisville  and  Nashville  Railway,  and 
there  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  a  leg  in  a 
collision.  This  was  the  beginning  of  troubles 
that  seemed  to  pursue  Laban  and  Mary.  Pov- 
erty laid  its  grim  hand  upon  them  at  every 
turn.  Mary  did  the  best  she  could.  She 
was  indeed  a  helpmate  and  a  comforter ;  she 


402  THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS 

was  brave  and  hopeful ;  yet  she  would  have 
given  up  in  despair  but  for  old  Aunt  Mirny, 
who  worked  and  slaved  that  her  young  mis- 
tress might  be  spared  the  bitterest  pangs  of 
poverty.  Her  faithfulness  was  without  bound- 
ary or  limit.  Day  and  night  she  toiled,  cook- 
ing, washing,  and  taking  care  of  the  toddling 
baby  that  had  come  to  share  the  troubles  of 
Laban  and  Mary.  As  soon  as  Laban  could 
get  about  on  his  crutches,  he  tried  to  find 
work;  but  his  efforts  were  fruitless.  The 
time  came  when  he  was  ready  to  say  to  his 
wife  that  he  could  do  no  more. 

Finally  the  little  family  drifted  back  to 
Atlanta.  Here  Laban  found  employment  in 
a  small  way  as  a  solicitor  of  life  insurance. 
He  was  doing  so  well  in  this  business  that 
a  rival  company  sought  his  services,  offering 
to  pay  a  fixed  salary  instead  of  commissions. 
But  no  sooner  had  he  given  notice  to  his 
employers  that  he  intended  to  accept  the  new 
position  than  a  complication  arose  in  his  ac- 
counts. How  it  happened  Laban  never  knew ; 
he  was  as  innocent  as  a  lamb.  The  company 
was  a  new  one,  trying  to  establish  a  busi- 
ness in  the  Atlanta  territory,  and  out  of  the 
funds  he  collected   he  used   money  to   pay 


THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS  403 

expenses  incurred  in  the  company's  behalf. 
His  vouchers  showed  it  all;  he  had  been 
careful  to  put  down  everything,  even  to  the 
cost  of  a  postal  card.  He  turned  over  these 
vouchers  and  accounts  to  his  employers.  But 
when  it  was  found  that  he  had  entered  the 
service  of  a  rival  company,  the  charge  of 
embezzlement  was  made  against  him.  He 
found  it  impossible  to  give  bonds,  and  was 
compelled  to  go  to  jail.  A  young  lawyer 
took  his  case,  and  was  sure  he  could  clear 
him  when  the  case  came  to  trial.  But  mean- 
while Laban  was  in  jail,  and  to  Mary  this 
was  the  end  of  all  things  ;  for  a  time  she 
was  utterly  prostrated.  She  refused  to  eat 
or  sleep,  but  sat  holding  her  child  to  her 
bosom,  and  crying  over  it.  This  went  on 
for  so  long  a  time  that  Aunt  Mimv  thought 
it  best  to  interfere.  So  she  took  the  two- 
year-old  child  from  its  mother,  and  made 
some  characteristic  observations. 

"You  ain't  gwine  ter  git  Marse  Laban 
out'n  jail  by  settin'  dar  cryin,'  honey.  Bet- 
ter git  mad  an'  stir  roun',  an'  hurt  some- 
body's feelin's.  Make  you  feel  lots  better, 
kaze  I  done  tried  it." 

"  0  mammy  !  mammy  !  "  moaned  Mary. 


404  THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS 

"  Day  atter  ter-morrer  '11  be  Chris'mus," 
Aunt  Mirny  continued,  "  an'  Marse  Laban 
got  ter  be  here  ter  dinner.  Dey  ain't  no  two 
ways  'bout  dat." 

"  Oh,  what  a  Christmas  !  "  cried  Mary. 

"  Yes  'm  ;  an'  de  cake  done  baked.  Don't 
you  fret,  honey !  De  Lord  ain't  fur  f 'orn 
whar  folks  is  in  trouble.  I  done  notice  dat. 
He  may  n't  be  right  dar  in  de  nex'  room,  an' 
maybe  he  ain't  right  roun'  de  cornder,  but 
he  ain't  so  mighty  fur  off.  Now,  I  tell  you 
dat." 

Whereupon  Aunt  Mirny,  carrying  the  child, 
went  out  of  the  house  into  the  street,  and 
was  so  disturbed  in  mind  that  she  walked  on 
and  on  with  no  thought  of  the  distance. 
After  a  while  she  found  herself  on  Peachtree 
Street,  where  the  baby's  attention  wras  at- 
tracted by  the  jingling  bells  of  the  street-car 
horses.  In  front  of  one  of  the  large  man- 
sions a  fine  carriage  was  standing".  On  the 
veranda  a  lady  stood  drawing  on  her  gloves 
and  giving  some  parting  orders  to  a  servant 
in  the  hall.  Aunt  Mirny  knew  at  once  that 
the  lady  was  her  old  mistress.  But  she 
turned  to  the  negro  coachman,  who  sat  on 
the  box  stiff  and  stolid  in  all  the  grandeur  of 
a  long  coat  and  brass  buttons. 


TEE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS  405 

"  Who  live'  here  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  Cun-nol  Asbe'y,"  the  coachman  replied. 
"  Ain't   dat    Becky  Tumlin   yonder  ? "  in- 
quired Aunt  Mirny,  with  some  asperity. 

"  No,  ma'am ;   dat  is  Missus  Cun-nol  As- 

b!         J> 
ey- 

"  Well,  de  Lord  he'p  my  soul !  "  exclaimed 
Aunt  Mirny. 

Then  she  turned  and  went  back  home  as 
fast  as  she  could,  talking  to  herself  and  the 
child.  Once  she  looked  back,  but  Cousin 
Rebecca  T.  was  sitting  grandly  in  the  car- 
riage, and  the  carriage  was  going  rapidly  to- 
ward the  business  portion  of  the  city.  Cousin 
Rebecca  T.  bowed  right  and  left  to  her  ac- 
quaintances and  smiled  pleasantly  as  the  car- 
riage rolled  along.  She  bowed  and  smiled, 
but  she  was  thinking"  about  her  daughter. 

Aunt  Mirny  hurried  home  as  fast  as  she 
could  go.  She  had  intended  at  first  to  tell 
Mary  of  her  discovery,  but  she  thought  bet- 
ter of  it.     She  had  another  plan. 

"You  see  me  gwine  'long  here?"  she  said, 
as  much  to  herself  as  to  the  baby.  "  Well,  ef 
I  don't  fix  dat  ar  white  'oman  you  kin  put 
me  in  de  calaboose."  She  stood  at  the  gate 
of  the   house   Laban   had    rented,  and  com- 


406  THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS 

pared  its  appearance  with  the  magnificence 
of  the  mansion  she  had  just  left.  The  con- 
trast was  so  startling  that  all  the  comment 
she  could  make  was,  "  De  Lord  he'p  my 
soul !"  She  took  the  child  in,  got  its  play- 
things, and  then  went  about  her  business 
more  briskly  than  she  had  gone  in  many  a 
day.  If  Mary  had  not  been  so  deeply  en- 
gaged in  contemplating  her  troubles,  she 
would  have  discovered  at  once  that  some- 
thing unusual  had  occurred.  Aunt  Mirny  was 
agitated.  Her  mind  was  not  in  her  work. 
She  drew  a  bucket  of  water  from  the  well 
when  she  intended  to  get  wood  for  the  little 
stove.  Occasionally  she  would  jDause  in  her 
work  and  stand  lost  in  thought.  At  last 
Mary  remarked  her  agitation. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  mammy  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  Something  has  happened." 

"  Ah,  Lord,  honey  !  'T  ain't  happen'  yit, 
but  it 's  gwine  ter  happen." 

"  Well,"  said  Mary,  shaking  her  head,  "  let 
it  happen.  Nothing  can  hurt  me.  The  worst 
has  already  happened." 

Aunt  Mirny  made  no  audible  comment,  but 
went  about  mumbling  and  talking  to  herself. 
Mary  sat  rocking  and  moaning,  and  the  little 


THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS  407 

child  made  the  most  of  the  situation  by  tod- 
dling from  room  to  room,  getting;  into  all 
sorts  of  mischief  without  let  or  hindrance. 
After  a  while  Aunt  Mirny  asked  :  — 

"  Honey,  don't  you  know  whar  yo'  pa  an' 
ma  is  ( 

"  Yes,"  said  Mary  languidly  ;  "  they  live 
in  Atlanta." 

"  Right  here  in  dis  town  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Whar'bouts  ?  " 

"  Oh,  don't  worry  me,  mammy  !  I  don't 
know.  They  care  nothing  for  me.  See  how 
they  have  treated  Laban  !  " 

"  Why  n't  you  hunt  'em  up,  an'  tell  'em 
what  kinder  fix  you  in  ?  I  boun'  dey  'd  he'p 
you  out."  Mary  gazed  at  Aunt  Mirny  with 
open-eyed  wonder.  "  Write  a  letter  ter  yo' 
ma.  Here's  what '11  take  it.  J'll  fin'  out 
whar  she  live  at." 

Mary  rose  from  her  chair  and  took  a  step 
toward  Aunt  Mimy,  not  in  anger,  but  by  way 
of  emphasis. 

"  Mammy,"  she  cried,  "  don't  speak  of  such 
a  thin g"  !  " 

"  Humph  !  "  Aunt  Mimy  grunted  ;  "  ef 
you  ain't   de  ve'y  spi't  an'   image  er  Becky 


408  THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS 

Tumlin,  I'm  a  saddle-hoss.  Proud !  con- 
sated  !  Dat  ain't  no  name  fer  it.  De  nigger 
man  what  I  got  now  ain't  much,  but  ef  he 
wuz  in  jail  I  'd  be  trottin'  roun'  right  now 
tryin'  ter  git  'im  out." 

The  next  morning  Aunt  Mimy  was  up  be- 
times. She  cooked  breakfast,  and  after  that 
meal  was  over  (it  need  not  have  been  pre- 
pared so  far  as  Mary  was  concerned),  she 
dressed  the  baby  in  some  of  its  commonest 
clothes,  and  put  on  its  feet  a  pair  of  shoes 
that  were  worn  at  the  toes.  This  done,  she 
took  the  lively  youngster  in  her  arms  and 
started  out. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  Mary  asked. 

"  Baby  gwine  ter  walk,"  Aunt  Mimy  an- 
swered. 

"  Not  in  those  clothes  !  "  Mary  protested. 

"  Now,  honey,"  exclaimed  Aunt  Mimy, 
"  does  you  speck  I  ain't  got  no  better  sense 
dan  ter  rig  dis  baby  out,  an'  his  pa  down 
yonder  in  de  dungeons  ?  " 

"  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?  "  cried  Mary,  for- 
getting everything  else  but  her  own  misery 
and  her  husband's  disgrace. 

"  Stay  right  here,  honey,  tell  I  come  back. 
I  won't  be  gone  so  mighty  long.     Den  you 


THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS  409 

kin  take  dis  precious  baby*  down  ter  see 
his  pa." 

The  day  was  clear  and  bright,  and  although 
it  was  Christmas,  the  soft  breezes  and  the  in- 
vigorating sunshine  had  the  flavor  and  quality 
of  spring.  Aunt  Mimy  paid  no  attention  to 
the  auspicious  weather,  but  made  her  way 
straight  to  the  Asbury  mansion  on  Peachtree 
Street.  On  her  face  there  was  a  frown,  and 
her  "  head-han'k'cker,"  which  usually  sat 
straight  back  from  her  forehead,  had  an 
upward  tilt  that  gave  her  a  warlike  appear- 
ance. 

She  went  up  the  tiled  walk  and  rang  the 
door-bell.  A  quadroon  girl  came  to  the  door ; 
the  girl's  voice  was  soft,  and  her  manners 
gentle,  but  Aunt  Mimy  had  a  strong  prejudice 
against  mulattoes,  and  it  came  to  the  surface 
now. 

"  Is  yo'  mist'ess  in  ?  "  she  asked  harshly, 

"Mis'  Asbury  is  in,"  said  the  girl  softly. 

"  Ax  her  kin  I  see  her." 

The  girl  slipped  away  from  the  door,  leav- 
ing it  ajar.  The  glimpse  of  the  magnificence 
within  angered  Aunt  Mimy.  Presently  the 
girl  returned. 

"  Has  you  got  any  message  ?  "  she  asked. 


410  THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS 

"  No,  I  ain't.  Tell  her  dat  a'  ole  nigger 
'oman  funi  de  country  want  ter  see  her." 

Cousin  Rebecca  T.  was  listening  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  hall,  and  thought  she 
recognized  the  voice.  The  girl  turned  away 
with  a  smile  to  deliver  the  message,  but  her 
mistress  was  standing  near.  With  a  wave  of 
her  hand,  Cousin  Rebecca  T.  dismissed  the 
servant,  saw  her  safely  out  of  hearing,  and 
then  opened  wide  the  door. 

"  Come  in,  Mirny,"  she  said  in  a  voice  as 
serene  as  a  summer  morning  ;  "  come  into 
my  room.  I  have  n't  seen  you  in  a  coon's 
age."  She  dropped  easily  into  the  vernacular 
of  Rockville  and  the  region  round  about. 
She  took  Aunt  Mimy  somewhat  off  her  guard, 
but  this  only  served  to  increase  the  agitation 
of  the  old  negro.  Cousin  Rebecca  T.  led  the 
way  to  her  back  parlor. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said  kindly.  "  How  have 
you  been  since  I  saw  you  last  ?  "  She  shut 
the  door  and  caught  the  thumb-bolt.  "  Sit 
in  that  chair.  Now,  what  have  you  to  tell 
me  ( 

Aunt  Mimy  saw  that  the  thin  white  hand 
of  her  old  mistress  trembled  as  she  raised  it 
to  her  hair. 


THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS  411 

"  Wellum,"  Aunt  Miniy  replied,  "  I  des 
tuck  er  notion  I  'd  drap  by  an'  say  '  Chris'mus 
Gif'.'  You  know  how  we  use'  ter  do  down 
dar  at  home.  I  ain't  seed  you  so  long,  it 's 
des  de  same  ez  sayin'  howdy  ?  " 

Cousin  Rebecca  T.  looked  hard  at  the  old 
darky,  and  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  nothing  to 
tell  me  —  nothing  ?  What  do  you  want  ?  " 
She  would  have  laid  her  hand  on  Aunt 
Mirny's  shoulder,  but  the  old  woman  shrunk 
away,  exclaiming :  — 

"  God  knows  dey  ain't  nothin'  here  /  want ! 
No,  ma!  am !  " 

Cousin  Rebecca  T.  took  a  step  toward  her 
old  servant. 

"Where  is  Mary?"  she  asked,  almost  in  a 
whisper. 

"  She  down  yander  —  down  dar  at  de 
house."  Aunt  Mimy  put  the  child  down, 
faced  Cousin  Rebecca  T.,  whose  agitation 
was  now  extreme,  and  raised  her  strong  right 
arm  in  the  air.  "  I  thank  my  God,  I  ain't  got 
no  chillun  !  I  thank  'im  day  an'  night.  Ef 
I  'd  'a'  had  'em,  maybe  I  'd  'a'  done  'em  like 
you  done  yone." 

"  You  are  impudent,"  said  Cousin  Rebecca 


412  THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS 

T.  The  little  child  had  gone  to  her,  and  her 
hand  rested  on  its  curly  head. 

"  Wellum,"  Aunt  Mirny  rejoined,  "  ef  you 
want  ter  call  de  trufe  by  some  yuther  name, 
let  it  go  at  dat." 

"Whose  child  is  this?" 

"  Heh  !  "  the  old  negro  grunted.  "  He 
look  like  he  know  who  he  kin  ter." 

Cousin  Rebecca  T.  took  the  child  in  her 
arms  and  carried  it  into  her  bedroom,  closing 
the  door  behind  her.  Aunt  Mirny  went  to 
the  door  on  tiptoe,  and  listened  silently  for  a 
moment.  Then  she  nodded  her  head  vig^or- 
ously,  ejaculating  at  intervals  —  "  Aha-a-a  !  " 
"  What  I  tell  you  ?  "     "  Ah-yi !  " 

Cousin  Rebecca  T.  placed  the  child  on  the 
floor  and  knelt  beside  it. 

"  Darling,  what  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Azzerbewy  Tummerlin  Pierson,"  replied 
the  child  solemnly. 

"  Oh,  will  the  Lord  ever  forgive  me  ? " 
cried  Cousin  Rebecca  T.,  falling  prone  on  the 
floor  in  her  grief  and  humiliation. 

"  Yonner  mudder  !  "  said  the  child. 

"Where?"  exclaimed  Cousin  Rebecca  T., 
starting  up. 

"  Yonner."      The   youngster  pointed  to  a 


THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS  413 

picture  of  his  mother  hanging  on  the  wall,  an 
enlarged  copy  of  a  photograph  taken  before 
she  was  married.  Seeing  that  the  lady  was 
crying,  the  child  went  to  her,  laid  its  soft 
face  against  hers,  and  gently  patted  her  with 
one  of  its  pretty  hands. 

"  Mudder  c'y  —  all,  all  'e  time,"  said  the 
child,  by  way  of  consolation. 

"  Oh,  precious  baby  !  "  exclaimed  Cousin 
Rebecca  T.,  "  she  shall  never  cry  any  more  if 
I  can  help  it." 

"  Ah-yi !  "  responded  Aunt  Mimy  on  the 
other  side. 

At  this  juncture  the  colonel  walked  into 
the  back  parlor.  "  Well,  my  dear,"  he  said, 
"  what  is  the  programme  to-day  ?  In  my 
opinion  —  why,  this  is  Mimy  !  Mimy,"  — 
his  voice  sank  to  a  whisper,  —  "  where  is  your 
young  mistress  ?  " 

"  Ah,  Lord !  you  been  waitin'  a  mighty 
long  time  'fo'  you  ax  anybody  dat  cpiesh- 
t'on  !  " 

"Mimy,  is  she  dead?"  The  ruddy  color 
had  fled  from  his  face. 

"  Go  in  dar,  suh."  Aunt  Mimy  pointed  to 
the  door  leading  into  the  bedroom. 

The  colonel  found  his   wife  weeping  over 


414  THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS 

the  little  child,  and,  being  a  tender-hearted 
man,  he  joined  her.  As  Aunt  Mirny  said 
afterward,  "  Dey  went  on  in  dar  mo'  samer 
dan  ef  dey  'd  'a'  done  got  erligion  sho  'nough, 
an'  de  Lord  knows  dey  needed  it  mighty 
bad." 

The  colonel  went  on  at  a  great  rate  over 
the  baby.  "  Look  at  the  little  shoes  with 
holes  in  them !  "  he  cried.  "  Look  at  the 
torn  frock  !  "     Then  he  fairly  blubbered. 

In  the  midst  of  it  all,  Aunt  Mirny  opened 
the  door  and  walked  into  the  room,  calm, 
cool,  and  indifferent.  Ah,  how  wonderfully 
she  could  play  the  hypocrite ! 

"Come  on,  honey,"  she  said.  "  Mudder 
waitin'  fer  you.  I  tole  'er  we  wuz  comin' 
right  back.  Come  ter  mammy."  The  baby 
ran  away  from  its  old  nurse,  and  hid  its  face  in 
its  grandmother's  bosom,  then  sought  refuge 
between  its  grandfather's  knees,  and  was  oth- 
erwise as  cute  and  as  cunning  as  babies  know 
so  well  how  to  be.  But  Aunt  Mirny  was 
persistent. 

"  Come  on,  honey  ;  time  ter  go.  Spile  you 
ter  stay  here.  Too  much  finery  fer  po' 
folks." 

"  Randall,"  said  Cousin  Rebecca  T.,  call- 


THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS  415 

ing  her  husband  by  his  first  name  (something 
she  had  not  done  for  years),  "  order  the  car- 
riage." 

"  No,  ma'am ;  no,  ma'am  !  "  Aunt  Mirny 
cried.  "  You  sha'n't  be  a-sailin'  roun'  my 
chile  in  a  fine  carriage  wid  a  big  nigger  man 
settin'  up  dar  grinnin'  —  no,  ma'am  !  I 
won't  go  wid  you.  I  won't  show  you  de 
way.  I  'm  free,  an'  I  '11  die  fust.  I  ain't 
gwine  ter  have  no  fine  carriage  sailin'  roun' 
dar,  and  Marse  Laban  lyin'  down  town  dar  in 
jail." 

"  In  jail !  "  cried  the  colonel.  "  What  has 
he  done  ?  " 

"  Nothin'  't  all,"  said  Aunt  Mirny.  "  De 
folks  des  put  'im  in  dar  'ca'se  he  wuz  po'." 

"  Randall,  go  and  get  him  out,  and  bring 
him  here.  Take  the  carriage."  In  this  way 
Cousin  Rebecca  settled  the  trouble  about  the 
carriage.  Then  she  went  with  Aunt  Mirny 
to  find  her  daughter,  and  the  old  woman  had 
to  walk  rapidly  to  keep  up  with  her.  When 
they  came  to  the  door,  Aunt  Mimy  paused  and 
looked  at  her  old  mistress,  and  for  the  first 
time  felt  a  little  sympathy  for  her.  Cousin 
Rebecca's  hands  were  trembling,  and  her  lips 
quivering. 


416  THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS 

"Des  go  an'  knock  at  de  door,"  said  Aunt 
Mirny    kindly.         "  De    po'    chile  's    in    dar 


J    5J 


I  'm  gwine  roun 

She  went  round  the  corner  of  the  house, 
and  there  paused  to  listen.  Cousin  Rebecca 
T.  knocked,  a  little  timidly  at  first,  and  then 
a  little  louder.  Mary  opened  the  door,  and 
saw  standing  there  a  richly  dressed  lady  cry- 
ing as  if  her  heart  would  break.  For  a  mo- 
ment she  was  appalled  by  this  appearance  of 
grief  incarnate  on  her  threshold,  and  stood 
with  surprise  and  pity  shining  from  her  eyes. 

"  My  precious  child  !  "  cried  Cousin  Re- 
becca T.,  "  have  you  forgotten  me  ?  " 

"  Mother  !  "  exclaimed  Mary. 

Then  Aunt  Mirny  heard  the  door  close. 
"  Come  on,  honey,"  she  said  to  the  baby ; 
"I  '11  turn  you  loose  in  dar  wid  'em." 

Cousin  Rebecca  T.  took  her  daughter 
home,  and  not  long  afterward  the  colonel 
appeared  with  Laban,  and  the  baby's  Christ- 
mas was  celebrated  in  grand  style.  Aunt 
Mirny  was  particularly  conspicuous,  taking 
charge  of  affairs  in  a  high-handed  way,  and 
laughing  and  crying  whenever  she  found  her- 
self alone. 

"  Nummine !  "  she  said  to   herself,  seeing 


THE  BABY'S   CHRISTMAS  417 

Mary  and  Laban  and  the  old  folks  laughing 
and  carrying  on  like  little  children  —  "  Num- 
mine  !  You  're  all  here  now,  an'  dat  's  doin' 
mighty  well  atter  so  long  a  time.  I  b'lieve 
dat  ar  aig-nog  done  flew'd  ter  der  heads.  I 
know  mighty  well  it 's  done  flew'd  ter  mine, 
kaze  how  come  I  wanter  cry  one  minute  an' 
lau«;h  de  nex'  ?  " 


CAMBRIDGE,  MASSACHUSETTS,  U.  S.  A. 

ELECTROTYPED  AND  PRINTED  BY 

H.  O.  HOUGHTON  AND  CO. 


